


The Bargain

by RiaTheDreamer



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bad Things Happen Bingo, Discussion of Torture, Emotional Manipulation, Force-Feeding, Friendship, Grief/Mourning, Humiliation, Imprisonment, Kidnapping, M/M, Panic Attacks, The making of Knife!Simmons, Torture, Violence, Vomiting, What if Temple met the Mercs AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-15
Updated: 2019-06-27
Packaged: 2019-07-12 18:50:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 39,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16001201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RiaTheDreamer/pseuds/RiaTheDreamer
Summary: Grif knew he was worth nothing.One fateful day on Chorus, he was proven horribly wrong.





	1. Mark

The sound of Felix tsking might be the scariest thing Grif had ever woken up to.

And that was counting the colony massacre.

“Aw, Locus,” Felix cooed, never taking his eyes off Grif as he stalked around him. “I think you left some bruises on him.”

His HUD was flickering, helmet damaged from the crash. Grif stared straight upwards, chest constricting at the sight of the orange mercenary. An odd feeling of being torn hit him – recognizing the danger looking down at him but being unable to move away, limbs acting like deadweights.

The most important task at the moment seemed to be breathing, and even that proved difficult, like a pressure on his chest.

His muscles first seemed to react when a hand grabbed the collar of his armor, pulling him upwards. As if he’d been dropped in boiling water, Grif leapt away, tearing himself out of the grip. He landed back in the mud on all fours, fuzzy vision circling in on his gun lying discharged a few feet away, having flown from his hands when the Warthog had crashed.

Survival instincts kicking in, Grif moved forward, already knowing the mercenaries would be faster than him, but maybe this way they would skip the whole torture part…

His fingers were inching closer to the gun when he noticed the heap of armor in the distance. One look at Bitters’ still form and the memories returned to him. It didn’t make sense – it’d been a routine mission, using the pirates’ distraction as the Freelancers and Tucker’s team struck one of the occupied military bases to transport some abandoned supplies back to Armonia.

They’d been on their way back home when the front wheel had suddenly exploded.

He couldn’t see if Bitters was still alive. There was no movement from the orange heap.

And it was a Gold Team rule to play dead if outnumbered. Grif would rather see cowardice than brave, dead soldiers.

Bitters could be a good Lieutenant and just following orders right now.

But even if that was the case…

Felix had observed his training lesson the day he’d explained the rule to the team. He knew.

Grif bit down on his lip and tried to convince himself that they still had a tiny hope somewhere. But he’d always been a bit of a pessimist.

And the sense of doom only increased when Felix placed himself next to him, crouching down to be closer to the collapsed soldier. Grif continued to look straight ahead, keeping his eyes on the gun.

“How about,” Felix began, and Grif could hear the smirk behind the visor, “you promise to behave, and I won’t have to check if he’s really dead. Huh? What do you say, big boy?”

For a moment Grif remembered the look that had haunted Tucker’s expression for days after he’d lost most of his team. As much as the thought disgusted him, there was a part of Grif that wanted to reach out to arm himself, a cowardice side of him that he’d never denied before.

But he was also painfully aware that the mercenaries had a quicker trigger-finger than him.

Eyes closed, Grif’s hand fell down into the mud, fingers slack.

Drops of dirty water splashed against his visor when Felix’ boots were planted right in front of his face.

“You really are smarter than you look,” Felix told him, and out of the few compliments Grif had received in his life, it was by far the worst.

Grif opened his mouth to throw a smug remark back at him, but the words choked in the middle of his throat when Locus pulled him up by the collar again. Grif stumbled once before regaining his footing, resulting in him wheezing for breath as he was brought back to their eye level.

“So let us have a look,” Felix said and with a rough movement he pulled off Grif’s helmet. The release of air made Grif scrunch up his eyes. After throwing the orange helmet over his shoulder, Felix spun his gun on his finger, making a show of himself, before pressing the muzzle against Grif’s chin, right below a growing bruise.

Grif bit down on his lip in order to help back a yelp when Felix added pressure.

Felix shook his head in a sober manner. “Sloppy work, Locus. The deal was to bring him unscathed. _Unfortunately_ ,” he added darkly, eyes gleaming as they remained locked with Grif’s.

“You were letting them get away,” the deep voice rumbled behind Grif. “The shot had to be done fast, and it had to be effective.”

Looking at the wrecked jeep, smoke rising from its wrecked heap, Locus once again proved he was an excellent shot. Grif’s eyes drifted from the wreckage to the limp soldier lying next to it, and he forced himself to stand absolutely still.

“Effective it is,” Felix said in a song-like tone, still keeping his gun against his face. “There’s our ride.”

Grif could hear the rushing wind, a tell-tale sign of an airship landing. When he turned his head to get a better view, all he saw was darkness.

Felix tightened the bag around his head, giving him a gentle shove in the back to signal for him to move forward. He chuckled darkly as they stepped on to the awaiting ramp, heading inside the Pelican, leaving the discharged helmet behind in the mud.

“Trust me,” the mercenary told Grif, fingers digging into his neck as he moved him forward, “you’re the lucky one out of your band of idiots.”

* * *

“I told you it’d be easy.”

Grif could hear the mercenaries talk above his head as he tried to test the restraints of his seat as stealthy as possible. Just a small push with his palm against the metal bar – and it didn’t budge. He knew these things were supposed to keep wounded safe in case of turbulence, but right now it felt like chains attached to his body.

“Don’t assume too much,” he could hear Locus’ deep voice rumble. “It’ll be eleven days before the delivery can be picked up. Until then, the bargain isn’t complete.”

“Oh, I’m sure Grif will be great company in the meantime.” In a snake-like manner, the arm curled around Grif’s shoulders, giving him a squeeze. “Don’t you think, buddy? It’s been such a long time since we’ve had a proper talk. Are you really that shy without Simmons?”

“I once had a kid cartoon tell me to keep my mouth shut if I didn’t have anything nice to say,” Grif snapped at them, wondering if he could be heard through the fabric of his mouth. It pressed against his lips whenever he inhaled. “Didn’t really give a shit about it before, but your ratface is so ugly, it sets a new standard.”

“I have some words to put in your mouth,” Felix told him, and the darkness made his smug tone even more unnerving, the uncertainty of just how close the mercenary was to him. “How about a _‘thank you’_?”

“How about a ‘ _fuck no_ ’?”

A chuckle could be heard after Grif spat at him, and he instinctively leaned back in his seat, trying to get some distance between them. An amused Felix was a dangerous Felix. In fact, all versions of Felix were dangerous. And Grif still wasn’t sure why they’d targeted him in the first place.

“You get to leave this shithole of a planet _alive_. That’s quite the honor! One that your friends won’t get to brag about.” The hand on his shoulder moved to grasp his chin instead, lifting his head upwards. Grif blinked, still unable to see. “So yes – I think a ‘ _thank you’_ is in order.”

When Felix let go of him, Grif felt a moment of relief.

It was short-lived, of course, because the fact still was that he was in the clutches of the mercenaries – a situation that had haunted his nightmares for the last months, since Felix had been revealed to be a A+ asshole bad guy.

He’d seen the tracks of their devastation, of course. The killed soldiers, the aftermath of torture, the stolen supplies. The citizens of Chorus were still recovering from years of manipulation while having to find the strength to fight back now when the truth had been exposed.

Grif was aware of the risks of fighting with them – it’d never been an ideal choice for him, but it wasn’t like he could back out of it. There was nowhere to go, and his team seemed convinced to stay and fight – but he’d never quite imagined he’d been the one the mercenaries put their eyes on.

Tucker, maybe. Felix definitely had it out for him. Or maybe they’d go for one of the Freelancers. Someone important, at least.

Not Minor Junior Private Negative First Class Dexter Grif.

Though, technically he was a Captain now. Not that it mattered much.

The restraints were released, and he was pulled to his feet, a gun pressed against the back of his head, and so he was led forward. Despite the bag, he could sense the change of air as they exited the ship. Stumbling once due to his lack of sight, Grif was quickly pulled along as the mercenaries marched forward in a quick pace.

His boots clanked against the floor. Metal.

They weren’t outside.

Grif knew this was a very, very bad sign.

When they came to a halt, things only got worse.

“Armor off,” Locus’ voice ordered him, and Grif knew better than to go against it. He only hesitated for a second before his fingers went for the armor clasps. He fumbled with them for a bit, still trapped in darkness, but eventually all the armor plates came off, one by one.

He could hear the metal scrape against the floor when someone picked it up.

“Search it for trackers,” Locus told someone Grif couldn’t see. “Then store it in the laboratory so it can be compared with the blueprints.”

Grif had plenty of questions to these orders but he didn’t feel suicidal enough to say them out loud.

“Let’s just lock him up already,” Felix’ voice came from somewhere to his left. “I want this over with in time to listen in on their radio channels. This is going to be _fun_. You two – take him to the solitary confinement cell.”

Hands grabbed Grif’s arms, and he could feel the grip more painfully this time, only wearing his Kevlar suit now. His new pirate friends didn’t speak to him as they dragged him away.

Felix’ and Locus’ voices become more muffled with the distance, and it was almost a relief when he couldn’t hear them any longer. He put one foot in front of another, until he heard the familiar _swoosh_ of a door sliding open.

He was pushed down in a sitting position, feeling a worn mattress beneath his palm. Something cold was added around his ankle, then came the sound of footsteps that diminished the moment the door closed.

When he was left alone, Grif quickly reached up to tear the bag off his head. The fresh air – as fresh as it could be in a cell – didn’t seem to calm him down, and he was still gasping for air when he took in his surroundings.

There wasn’t much to look at.

Four metal walls surrounded him, the room so small that he could reach out and touch them if he took a few steps away from the cot. However, the chain around his ankle didn’t allow him to do so, and his movement were limited to standing up or lying on the poor excuse of a bed.

There was a camera hanging in corner in the opposite wall of the door. Grif stopped tugging at his chain to look up at it, immediately flipping it off.

Nothing happened, which he supposed he should be grateful for.

Grif settled on the cot, hands digging into the one blanket the cell contained.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he breathed out, trying to keep his body from shaking. But now when the adrenalin was fading, he began to realize how _absolutely fucked_ he was.

But even now, feeling awful and pretty much doomed, it was somehow better than what he’d expected. No torture chamber yet, no bullet to the forehead.

He wasn’t sure what they wanted him for, but so far they seemed to make a big deal out of keeping him alive – and, surprisingly, unharmed.

The image of Bitters’ still form kept appearing on the back of his eyelids, and he sighed, knowing he could do nothing but hope that the Lieutenant had made it. That maybe the others had found him and then-

Then they’d plan a rescue mission. Sure, his team was awful, and ‘ _supportive’_ was not the best term to describe them, but they’d come. Eventually. After enough passive-aggressiveness from Simmons and a kick in the ass from Carolina, they’d come. Or try.

And that was a problem in itself.

If they tried, that meant the mercenaries could easily lure them into a trap.

But-

_But_ if Felix was right about him leaving Chorus, if the ship had in fact left the atmosphere-

No one could find him in space.

No one could save him.

* * *

None of the mercenaries visited him until four days later. Until then he was left alone, the only other person being the pirate that once a day would open the door to leave a tray filled with enough food and water to last another twenty-four hours. ‘ _Enough’_ was a gracious word, though, as Grif’s diet usually contained three times as much.

But at least he wasn’t starving. And it was decent food as well. The usual MREs he’d grown so used to during his years stuck in the military, and a cold sandwich he’d always try to save as breakfast for the following morning. He spent the day in the cot, blanket pulled up around him.

It was more comfortable than he’d expected imprisonment to be.

It didn’t sound like anything he could complain about. It was way better than the torture chamber he’d pictured himself in. But all the hours lying in bed, staring at the ceiling and _waiting_ -

-It left a lot of room to think. About the others. About what had happened to them. About what they were going to do. About what would happen to him. About what Locus had meant when he’d mentioned a ‘pick up’.

But no answers were given to Grif.

He was left in the complete silence of the cell, and the best way to spend time seemed to be curling into himself on the bed, pretending to be asleep to the camera.

Grif was still facing the wall when Felix suddenly entered his cell, helmet off so he could show off his smirk. As much as Grif wanted to ignore the guy, he knew it was best not to turn his back to Felix. So he pushed himself up with his palms, hearing the chain rattle as he moved against the wall.

Felix stared at him, eyes small and narrowed, head tilted. “Feeling at home yet?”

“I’ve been in better hotels. They may have had rats but none as big as you.”

“You’re a funny one,” Felix said, crossing his arms as he stared down at the bed. “I’d forgotten that about you.”

“Well, we both know the biggest joke in this room is your friendly attitude.”

Another chuckle came from the mercenary. “You are _so_ lucky I’ve promised not to put a hand on you. That mouth of yours _really_ makes me want to send your tongue to Simmons as gift. I’m sure he’d love that. Something to remember you by.”

When the mercenary’s fingers reached downwards, playing with the handle of the dagger strapped to his thigh, Grif bit his lip to prevent himself from speaking more words.

“I’m curious – you do realize they’re not coming for you, right? I know it’s obvious, but you guys just keep surprising me with how stupid you are. I can never be sure.”

“Hey, in my opinion, it’s better than leaving you bored. Psychopaths usually gets the worst ideas when bored.”

“You are so right about that.”

Something about Felix’ gleaming smile made Grif pull his legs closer to himself. Lowering his glance, his fingers went to play with the corner of his blanket. “So… Have the others beaten your asses yet?”

In hindsight, maybe he should have expected an outburst from the mercenary. Anger.

But the guy just shook his head. “They’re too busy wasting their time breaking into abandoned military bases. They really still think you are on Chorus. Idiots.”

As depressing as the facts were probably going to be, Grif also understood that this was his chance to gain info about his situation. He looked up again, trying to keep his expression neutral. “Where are we?”

“Fancy little prison ship the UNSC didn’t give too many shits about,” Felix replied with a shrug. “It has too many cells if you ask me. We don’t plan on keeping prisoners, if you catch my meaning.”

Grif breathed in deeply. “Except me.”

“Not for long,” he let him know with a cold smile on his lips. “But isn’t it nice to feel special?”

“I have some complaints.”

“File them to Locus. Guy’s such a great listener. Did you know that? I’ve been told I’m just too… inpatient.”

Unable to stop himself, Grif gulped at that comment.

Felix’s smile widened. “I tend to get bored quickly,” he said.

And then he lunged.

Grif slammed his head against the wall in an attempt to get away. But there was nowhere to go, and he could only watch in horror as Felix’s knife was plunged in the direction of his face.

He closed his eyes.

Less than a second later, it was over. Heart beating like crazy, he dared to take a look, wanting to make sure whether he was dead or not. He wasn’t quite sure – he’d lost all feeling in his body.

There was a flash, and everything turned white.

While he was blinded, he could hear a laughter, and he reached upwards to rub his eyelids, desperate to regain his sense of sight.

And when he could finally see, he saw Felix with a datapad, looking at he picture he’d just taken.

“Per _-fect_ ,” the mercenary mused, smacking his lips. “Man, you are a model. That look in your eyes, like you are about to piss yourself. Mhmm. That crazy motherfucker is probably going to jack himself off to this. Do you think I should send it to Simmons too? Don’t you think that’ll excite him a little?”

His hands were shaking, pulse still beating like he’d run a mile, but Grif managed to realize just what was going on, and he leaned forward, shaking his head. “No,” he said, hating the desperate tone in his voice. “Leave him out of it.”

“Oh, now I just have to do it.”

Felix sent him a last stare, even waving his hand as a mocking goodbye gesture before leaving the cell.

And then Grif was alone.

There was no way to tell time, but it felt like it took an hour before his heart stopped racing.

* * *

Locus had mentioned eleven days. That was all Grif had to go on.

There were no windows in his cell. The only source of light was the lamp in the ceiling that was lit at all times, quickly turning annoying. Grif was glad he was a heavy sleeper that didn’t require darkness to doze off.

Though, he had suffered from more nightmares than usual during his stay here.

Sometimes about himself. About Felix’s grin and Locus’ darkened visor. Sometimes about the others and… and Simmons.

Grif’s fingers curled into the blanket. He knew he should grow used to the thought that he wasn’t going to see the others again, but why did it have to be so damn hard?

If he remembered right, he’d been fed ten times. Maybe one time more or less. He wasn’t sure. The days just seemed to melt together in the solitude.

He’d spent most of the time sleeping. It was either that or slamming his head against the wall. Sometimes he’d fallen into the old habit of stress eating, but that that just left him starved until the next tray of food arrived the day after.

Being alone, he’d of course wondered just what the mercenaries’ plan was. This… ‘motherfucker’, as Felix had put it. The bargain that Locus had mentioned.

It all sounded like he was being sold.

Which didn’t make sense, of course. Grif knew he was worth nothing.

In the beginning he’d believed he’d be used as a hostage against the others. As much as he hated the thought – he knew it’d put the others in dangers – it had at least given him the hope he’d see the others again.

But this…

He had not idea what was going to happen next.

Maybe it was that desperation that finally made him snap.

He was in the middle of eating his dinner when he became painfully aware of the camera staring down at him. It’d been doing that for almost eleven days, just waiting for the moment he’d be led out of the cell.

Those fuckers were probably watching him right now, waiting for him to break down, just so that Felix could shove it in Simmons’ face-

Grif dug his hand into the gravy from the MRE, making sure it was dripping from his fingers as he sprung onto his bed in order to reach the camera.

Straining himself, he managed to touch it with the tip of his fingers, smearing the brown substance all over the lens until he was sure it was covered.

Watching the mess he’d made gave him an odd sense of success, and he breathed in deeply, smiling.

It might be his last day before who-knew-what, but at least he wouldn’t have the mercenaries watching his breakdown.

Or so he thought.

Before he could even react, Felix had stormed into the room, digging his glove-covered fingers into Grif’s neck as he pushed him against the wall.

Grif, stunned by the shock, stared into the mercenary’s visor as he tried to breathe.

“We may have been told not to mess you up, but I think he’d _really_ appreciate it if we taught you how to behave.”

The dagger was in front of his face again, and Grif’s widened eyes stared at it, heart beating faster the closer it came. For a second he considered calling out Felix’s bluff – they hadn’t dared to hurt him yet, and so they wouldn’t break that promise now.

But then the tip of the knife pressed against his lips, and pressure was added until he let it slide between them. The metal clanked against his teeth, and he didn’t even dare to gulp when he felt its cold touch against the top of his tongue.

Slowly but steadily, Felix began to twist the knife around.

“I ran into your friends the other day,” he told Grif calmly as the blade scraped against the inside of his cheek. “Had a little talk with Simmons. I knew the guy was a mess before, but you really should see him now. So pathetic. Do they really think he can survive in the battle when he has to stop to cry every five minutes? You probably won’t believe me, but the guy actually wailed when I told him how you died.”

Grif couldn’t breathe. Not with Felix’s fingers on his throat, not with his knife in his mouth. He didn’t dare to move the slightest, and he remained frozen like a statue when Felix leaned his face closer to his.

The only movement was his chest moving up and down in suppressed panic as his pulse raced on.

“I told him how you died screaming. That I burned the fat right off you while you were still alive. That I poked out your eyeballs and made you eat them. That I made you hold your own intestines as you died.”

Felix’s visor was so close now, it almost touched his nose.

“That your last word was his name,” he finished, tilting his head. And then he threw it back to laugh. “Poor guy actually threw up. Can you believe that?”

Simmons. Simmons’ name. That was all he could think of with the knife’s edges pressing against his tongue and the roof of his mouth. It was the only thing inside his brain as his eyes widened and he opened his mouth so wide it felt like his jaw would pop.

“Don’t worry,” Felix told him. “I’ll make sure Simmons dies screaming your name. That’s only fair.”

The fingers let go of his throat, but Grif didn’t dare to move yet. The knife cut into his lip when Felix shoved his fingers inside his mouth, pressing a pill against he back of his mouth.

“Swallow,” he ordered when he’d retracted his hand.

Grif, tasting blood, did what he was told.

Without another word, Felix threw Grif to the floor. He let out a yelp when the chain twisted his ankle, and he landed face-first into his half-eaten dinner.

“You just keep making messes,” Felix tsked at him before leaving the cell.

Simmons. Simmons was on Chorus. Simmons was still alive. Simmons had been crying.

His hands kept shaking and he slipped in the remains of the gravy, hitting the metal floor again. Spitting out blood from the small cuts inside his mouth, Grif tried to stand again but his legs wouldn’t obey.

Deciding that there was no difference if he was lying on the floor or the bed, Grif let himself collapse. It didn’t matter anyway. Nothing to do but wait now.

And eventually the pain in his ankle began to subside – and so did his focus. He stared at the ceiling, breathing in heavily, repeating Simmons’ name in his thoughts until they began to scatter.

The panic disappeared, too, alongside the fear.

He felt like he’d just awoken after a weekend spend on napping. His body felt so heavy. His eyelids seemed to move in slow-motion when he blinked.

“Up we go,” Felix sang when a gloved hand pulled him upwards. “You get to carry him, Locus. I’m not dealing with his weight.”

Grif mouth fell open but he couldn’t seem to find any words as he was pulled down metal hallways, strong hands gripping his shoulders to keep him on his feet. He kept stumbling, legs giving up in the middle of a step.

He was first let go of when he was shoved against a tiled wall. A shower, he realized, looking upwards to see the row of protruding metal shower heads.

“We can’t hand you over like that,” Felix told him, nodding towards his shirt that was stained with sweat and gravy.

Grif stared at him, face numb. He tried to remember the last time he’d showered – he failed immediately, and not just because of his drugged brain. The smell of sweat hadn’t bothered him before, neither had his greasy hair.

“Clothes. Off.”

Fingers fumbling with the fabric, Grif did what he was told, eyes burning. When the ice-cold water was poured on him the moment he stood naked before them, his bad ankle gave out and he slipped to slam against the tiles.

Shaking from cold, he was still on all fours when a bottle of soap was kicked towards him. Grif followed the wordless order, fingers shaking as he cleaned his body in front of the biggest assholes he knew.

His teeth were clattering when the water was finally turned off, and it was an immense relief when Felix threw a towel at him. He couldn’t feel his hands any longer, but he managed to dry himself, shielding his lower parts to avoid further humiliation.

A pair of trousers and a shirt were waiting for him, both white and soft. It helped with the cold, though his limbs wouldn’t stop shaking. Simmons, his mind repeated over and over. It was so easy to forget the mercenaries’ presence when the only thought existing in his head was Simmons’ name.

“They arrived ten minutes ago,” Locus told his partner. Grif was looking at them both, eyes wide and blank, not quite hearing their words. “He is getting inpatient.”

“Do you think I’m scared of him?” Felix snorted in response. “He’ll thank us for getting rid of the smell.”

Hands gripped Grif’s upper arms again, and he let himself be dragged away, out of the room. He was getting off the ship now, his mind realized, but he was too tired to come up with a reaction to that realization.

“Do you know what’s going to happen to your friends?” Felix’s voice growled lowly into his ear. Grif’s head hung limply, unable to move away from the horrible sound. “I’m trading you, so they can all get a slow death. So they can watch each other die. Don’t think I’m doing this for the sake of making it easy. Oh no. I could take them all in a fight, if they were up for a rematch. But imagine, just how fun it will be to kill Wash in front of Tucker. Or vice versa. I haven’t decided yet.”

Grif heard the words but he couldn’t quite understand them. It was all so muffled. He was so tired.

It was only the sentence involving Simmons’ name that gained his attention.

“Such a shame that I can’t pull that off with you and Simmons now, huh.”

Grif couldn’t reply to that.

He looked down, watching his own bare feet being dragged across the cold floor when his legs gave out. The tiles of the floor blurred together, and he blinked, trying to clear his vision.

And suddenly he was staring at a pair of cobalt boots.

Hands moved under his chin, lifting his face.

“Hi,” a strange voice told him. It sounded happy. “You can call me Mark.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the Bad Things Happen Bingo - An anon requestion "kidnapped, maybe with grif and felix, please?"
> 
> This is the Temple meets the Mercenaries AU I've been craving for a while.
> 
> I had way to much fun with this. I do like Felix and Locus, but my main problem with the Chorus triology was how they only cared about Tucker and the Freelancers. Didn't feel like they were even that aware of Red Team.
> 
> Okay, I am very much considering making this an actual multichapter fic when I get the time, so I can follow up on what happened on Chorus and what will happen with Grif and Temple. Would you guys be interested in that? Please share your thoughts.
> 
> Thank you soo much for reading! <3


	2. Care Enough

His ankle was twisted. He focused on the pain, head tilted towards the limb, and he sat on the ground, helmet resting next to him. He’d torn it off in a hurry when he’d first tried to stand up, vomit leaving his mouth before he even realized his body was revolting against him.

The puke was still sticking to his boots as he eventually picked up the helmet, knowing he had to make the call. It felt so heavy in his hands.

“Lieutenant Bitters calling in,” he said, hearing the family white noise until someone would answer. The smoke from the broken Warthog was tickling his nose. “Lieutenant-“

“Bitters?”

“Kimball.” He breathed in deeply and tasted blood. He wasn’t sure why. He wasn’t hurt. “Gold team was ambushed. Over.”

There was a moment of silence.

“I hear you.”

“Locus and Felix got us. Vehicle destroyed. Captain Grif is…”

“Captain Grif is what?” Kimball asked him, as if it was a challenge, voice tense enough for him to know that she already had an expectation of the answer.

She was wrong. It wasn’t much better than what she thought, but she was still wrong. “Grif’s gone. They took him. I don’t know where.”

“Are you injured?”

“Not really.”

“Do you have your coordinates? I will send backup for your location. Try to see if they’ve left behind any means of tracking them.”

But they hadn’t. Bitters spent the next half an hour watching the sun slowly set from the corner of his eye as he kept his head low, looking for non-existing clues. The only thing he found was an orange helmet, lying abandoned with a thin layer of snow on it.

He picked it up and almost threw up again.

“You are Grif’s Lieutenant?”

It was, of course, of all people Agent Carolina who came to offer help. Bitters hunched his shoulders as he turned around to face her. It wasn’t because he had anything against the Freelancer – if anything, he just knew how great a fighter she was.

Her competence would make it easier to discover the truth.

“Bitters,” he said, nodding. He knew that the Freelancers had stayed close to Green Team during the attack. Gold Team’s mission had been supposed to go unnoticed. Bitters wished he could feel more surprised that things had screwed up.

The agent kept her helmet on, shielding her face. “When did this happen?”

“I… don’t know?” He sighed, feeling his headache grow. “I, uh… The jeep sorta exploded? Pretty sure I hit my head. But I saw Felix. And the Locus guy. They were standing around Grif. Then… I blacked out again. I found this,” he added quickly, hoping it would prevent further questions for now.

Agent Carolina accepted the orange helmet carefully, holding it in her hands for a moment without saying a word.

Bitters wasn’t quite sure what he’d expected or what to do now, so he turned his head to avoid staring at. “I didn’t find anything else,” he added briefly.

“Epsilon, do you see anything?”

A second later, the weird hologram appeared on her shoulder. Bitters wasn’t sure if he was supposed to greet him, but he didn’t care enough to do so either way.

“I see tracks from a Pelican. Wind has washed away too much to tell the directions.”

“Where do you think they’d take him?”

“Oh, the big prize question isn’t _where_ – it’s _why_? Just why they fuck did they target Grif?”

Carolina clenched her fists. “ _Why_ won’t tell me where to go to get him back.”

“Look, I’m an artificial intelligence programmed to figure things out – and I _can’t figure out_ why they would go for the orange idiot! It doesn’t make sense!”

“They will have a reason for it,” the agent added darkly as she paced back and forth near the edge of the cliff, looking for further signs of where they could have gone.

“Yeah, definitely. The problem is those twisted fucks have darker thoughts than I can conjure up.”

“Do you see anything else?”

“Nope.”

Bitters felt the slightest of relief when he didn’t mention the vomit splattered across the rocky ground. Maybe they didn’t notice that, or the way his hands kept shaking, or how he refused to meet their stares.

“What do we do?” he asked, and he didn’t expect an answer.

* * *

“No, seriously, what’s eating you?”

“Nothing,” Wash said, voice tense, betraying him, “like I told you.”

Tucker snorted, blowing dark hair away from his face. “Sure. Which is why you’ve been looking like someone kicked you in the dick for the last two hours. Seriously. What is going on?”

“Nothing,” the Freelancer replied. “Don’t worry about it.” The soldiers had just reached the outskirts of Armonia, returning home safely after today’s mission. It’d been a successful attack against one of the few known pirate bases – previously occupied by the Feds.

With today’s mission, Armonia had managed to secure more supplies, and even though the pirates had either fled or died, it still counted as a success.

Things had gone flawlessly, until Carolina had received a call from Kimball.

“Welp, now I know to worry about it,” Tucker said, shoving his elbow against his torso. “C’mon, I’m a Captain now! Dealing with secret intel is my job.”

With a long sigh, Wash removed his helmet.

At the sight of his expression, Tucker faltered. “Oh fuck, who died?” When Wash’s frown only grew deeper, Tucker’s mouth fell open. “No. Fucking shit. _Who died_?”

“No one. It’s not… We’re not sure.”

“What the fuck does that mean?!”

“Felix and Locus targeted Gold Team,” Wash finally told him, letting him know just what his thoughts had been focused on the last couple of hours. His voice was firm and surprisingly smooth, practiced to deliver bad news after too many years with Project Freelancer. His eyes softened slightly when he saw Tucker’s horror, but his expression didn’t change. “The Lieutenant reported the attack. Grif is gone.”

“ _Gone_ meaning-?”

“Taken,” Wash said, hoping it could be a small relief. “We don’t know where.”

Running a hand through his dark hair, Tucker kept blinking, processing the news. “But we are going to find him. Shit, are we even looking-?”

“Carolina’s at the scene right now. She- She’ll return when they’ve found the info they need.”

“Shouldn’t we be helping them?”

“Tucker-“

“We’re just standing here!” he exclaimed, gaining some sideway glances from the soldiers returning from patrol, ready to rest inside Armonia’s buildings. “Oh fuck, we have to tell Red Team, right? Simmons is going to freak out-“

A hand clasped around his arm, preventing him from taking another step. “Not yet,” Wash warned him, and Tucker tensed under his grip. “We have to wait for Carolina.”

“Why?”

“Look, this will cause panic. Naturally. We are all worried but – Let’s collect the information we have before we break the news.”

“So what you’re saying is you want to know if Grif’s dead before we tell Red Team? Fuck, this is bullshit.” Tucker groaned, kicking a rock on the ground. His eyes darted towards the city, and he stayed put, knowing that he’d have to avoid Red Team for now, that his expression would reveal too much.

He inhaled deeply, focusing on the quiet chatter among them – Rebels and Feds working together for the first time, not truly by choice, but a progress nonetheless as a soldier helped another carry a too heavy crate. Tiny steps in the right direction, even if their leaders still had a lot to learn.

Wash stood next to him, following his glance. The evening air was getting colder, but his helmet felt too heavy as it dangled from his fingers. Briefly catching a sight of orange armor plates among the crowds of too young soldiers, Tucker gulped. “So what do you think?” he asked the Freelancer. “What’s his chances?”

The moment passed too slowly. “Tucker,” Wash eventually said, dragging out the name. His head tilted down towards him, eyes pitiful. “Locus made it clear they don’t take prisoners unless necessary.”

Tucker understood what he meant, even though none of them wanted to say the word ‘torture’ out loud.

* * *

“Did you get the call too?” Donut asked him after the two stumbled together in the hallway. When Simmons nodded he continued with his head tilted in thoughtfulness, “Kimball sounded very upset. Do you think she’s had another spat with Doyle? Oh, I’ve seen farm cats fight but these two beat the ferociousness and the passion!”

Simmons shrugged, recalling Kimball’s grim tone and how quickly she’d hung up on him. “I don’t know.” The uneasiness was making his stomach feel sick, and he could feel his thoughts dart in forty-seven different directions to find the worst possible outcome for each one of them. “Have you heard anything about Green Team’s mission?”

“Nope!” Donut gasped loudly, turning his head towards him. “Do you think this means Blue drama?”

“I hope so,” Simmons replied and first then seem to realize his own words. “I mean, I hope nothing is wrong! But, well, we’ve handled Blue drama before so I’m sure we… I’m sure we can handle… handle it agai…” He kept trailing off, eyes drifting towards an orange color in the distance.

For a split second, his heart was filled with relief.

Then he realized just who he was looking at, and his stomach dropped again.

Donut had come to a halt, standing outside the war room, but Simmons ignored the hand on his shoulder, taking steps further down the hallway. “I just need to ask Bitters something,” he said breathlessly, excusing himself. “I- Bitters-“

The Lieutenant looked upwards at the sound of his name, but he didn’t say anything.

Simmons had opened his mouth, but no words came out of it. He just kept walking, until Wash appeared out of nowhere, gripping his upper arm to lead him back to the war room.

“I just need to talk with Bitters,” Simmons said, and he heard his own voice break.

Wash shook his head, awakening Simmons’ instinct to flee. It didn’t win, however, and he didn’t remember much else until he was sinking into one of the chairs around the oval-shaped table in the war room.

Turning his head, Simmons saw Sarge, Donut, Lopez, Caboose, Tucker, Wash, Carolina, Epsilon, Doyle, Kimball…

He didn’t have to count to realize who was missing.

“Is he dead?” he asked, deciding to cut the case.

“Felix and Locus captured Captain Grif as Gold Team was heading back for Armonia,” Kimball told them, voice surprisingly firm as she folded her hands. “Right now we don’t know where they are keeping him or why.”

Some air escaped Simmons’ lungs. It wasn’t quite an exhale, not quite a whimper either. “But he’s alive?”

On Carolina’s shoulder, Church crossed his arms. “If they wanted him dead, why not just put a bullet through his head?”

“You need more than one,” Sarge added in a huff deeper than normal. “Speaking from experience.”

“They have him captured for a reason,” Kimball said, and she turned her head in surprise when her fellow General spoke next.

“Unfortunately, Locus has never been keen on keeping prisoners,” Doyle said, followed by a small cough. His fingers tapped against the table. “He tended to deal with them after they’d expired their usefulness, despite my opinions on the matter.”

Kimball raised her chin just an inch too high, voice a growl as she said, “Meaning that after you tortured my men, you killed them.”

“I was never-“

“This is about Grif,” Carolina cut them off. “Gold Team was carrying supplies and they were left untouched when I arrived at the scene. Grif was the target, and they were waiting for him.”

“And if anyone has an idea _why_ they want him, please speak up,” Church added.

“He’s a Captain. Maybe not the most skilled one, but he has the title nonetheless.”

Carolina gave Kimball a nod before turning to the rest of the table again. “Right now we believe they either want information from him or-“

“ _Or_?” Simmons pressed on. He could feel his cybernetic heart beat faster, like glitch, like a malfunction.

Carolina had taken off her helmet, allowing him to see the dull fury in her eyes, clouded with something he guessed was grief. “Or they will use him as a hostage,” she continued. “Send us demands. But so far, we’ve heard nothing.”

“Maybe the mailman is late,” Caboose added. His cheerful voice was a contrast to the rest of the room. “It’s happened before.”

No one replied to that.

“So are we just going to wait?” Donut asked to break the silence. He’d already begun to cry, his mascara leaving dark stains behind on his cheeks.

“Right now, we know of two of the pirates’ hideouts,” Carolina said and the holographic map came to life above the table, two glowing spots in each end of Chorus. “We’ll hit them tomorrow, in case they are keeping him there. If we find him, we rescue him. If he’s not there, we collect the information we can – data files, prisoners. Try to leave the pirates alive and we will make them speak.”

“So that’s the plan?”

Looking at Simmons, Church nodded. “Unless we hear from the fuckers, this is what we can work with.”

Tucker who’d been unusually quiet so far raised a hand. “What if Felix’s there tomorrow? Or Locus?”

“It might be a trap,” Doyle added with a thoughtful hum.

“A badly planned one,” Church snorted. “We are still guessing blindly where they _might_ be keeping him. There were no clues left at the scene.”

“Wash and I will split so each team have a Freelancer,” Carolina said, glancing towards her teammate. They shared a solemn glance. “We are not letting them get more of us.”

“It’s not like you two are invincible,” Tucker muttered, a faint tone of tease in his voice that faded away almost before he’d spoken the words.

As the silence grew thicker, Simmons remembered how the Freelancer had been with Green Team today, supporting them on their mission as backup. Unbeknownst to the others, he clenched his fists beneath the table.

 “I suggest we rest now,” Carolina told them all. “Tomorrow will be… eventful.”

No one left their seats, but a quiet shuffling began among them, people looking at the floor instead of each other.

Clearing her throat, Kimball looked directly at the end of the table where Simmons was sitting. “Simmons, Grey has offered to talk with you in case-“

“Of what? I’m not- I don’t need a doctor.” He stood up, the legs of his chair scraping against the metal. He shook his head, his vision getting more and more blurry. “Bitters came with you, right? I- I want to talk to him-“

“Bitters was knocked out when they attacked the jeep,” Kimball replied. “He has faint memories of the mercenaries taking Grif, and he doesn’t want to discuss it further. He should be allowed to rest.”

Simmons wasn’t sure if the others could see his hands shaking. “But-“

“We’ll find Grif,” Kimball said as a promise.

Simmons wished it felt more comforting.

* * *

Bitters had turned off the light the moment he laid down, hoping that Mathews would see it as a sign of him being asleep.

But of course his bunkmate had to enter their shared bedroom sobbing. Burying his face in the pillow, Bitters understood that the rumor must have spread. That now everyone knew that Captain Grif was gone, that he was royally screwed.

Bitters knew what had happened to his fellow Rebels that had been caught by the Feds. He knew what awaited prisoners, and he knew they wouldn’t come home.

Matthews knew that too.

In the darkness, he heard Matthews crawl into the bunk bellow him, sniffing loudly.

“I’m sure Captain Grif will be alright,” Matthews told him firmly, as if oblivious to his own tears. “It’s not your fault.”

Bitters stayed quiet and wondered if Matthews would still be his friend if he knew the truth, if he knew just how big a coward he was.

* * *

The cyborg eye allowed him to see clearly in the darkness.

Grif’s empty bed couldn’t be missed.

“Fuck you, you idiot,” Simmons muttered, staring at it until his eyes hurt.

The room was so quiet without the sound of snoring, without the soft pillow talk.

Simmons turned over to glare at the wall instead, trying his best not to think of Felix’s taunting voice, the way Grif had screamed his name when he fell off the cliff…

* * *

“Carolina!”

“He. Isn’t. Talking.”

“ _Carolina_.”

“What?!”

“He won’t be talking.”

She blinked, suddenly seeing the red on her fist, the floor, the pirate’s face. So much of it, and it fell from her hand as scarlet drops when she shook it. Her vision cleared, and she found himself staring into the trashed face of the captured pirate.

The blank look in his eyes, the way his broken jaw hung limply, made her clench her bloodstained fist. “ _Goddamnit_.”

Church flickered to life on her shoulder. “Hey, if it helps, I don’t think he would have talked before you punched his jaw down his throat.”

“I lost my temper.”

“You’re stressed.”

“We need results and I…” She trailed off, turning her head when she heard a scream coming from the other room. Taking over the base had been easy, and they’d struck fiercely and suddenly, and though many of the pirates had fled, they’d captured a few. It was enough.

“Look, Grey is still busy with her man,” Church pointed out. “Believe it or not, but she might be better at causing pain than you.”

She could hear Grey’s happy humming from here. “She’s a doctor.”

 “Exactly.”

Eventually the singing stopped, and so did the screaming. When Grey left her room to face them, she was still rubbing blood off her gloves.

“Did he talk?” Carolina asked her, unable to contain her eagerness. This was their last chance, and so far she’d been unable to do anything but wait. It was frustrating, not to mention painful.

“Well, yes,” the doctor said, tilting her head. Her tone was cheerful as always, but her expression was hidden by the helmet, leaving her words to reveal the truth. She cleared her throat. “Unfortunately, he doesn’t have any intel to give us.”

“What do you mean?”

The doctor sighed loudly – an uncharacteristic sign of defeat. “There’s been no talk of a prisoner among the guards. Nothing about Captain Grif or any other prisoner for the matter. Nothing about a transfer or more security. Nothing.” She gave the corpse a light kick. “I see you didn’t have much luck either.”

Carolina excused herself quietly, walking outside the base as she caught a few glimpses of Blue armor, and she didn’t quite have the strength to face the Sim Troopers yet.

It was raining outside, making it easier to get rid of the scarlet drops on her armor.

When they were alone, the hologram silently appeared on her shoulder.

“Don’t say it,” she said through gritted teeth.

“Well, you’re thinking it, so am I.”

She wiped away raindrops from her visor. “We don’t know if he’s dead.”

“We haven’t found anything saying he isn’t.”

“ _Epsilon_.”

The hologram spread out his arms, looking as apologetic as he could without an expression. “I’m not trying to be an asshole. Hey, I know that I am one, but that’s not my fault.” His tone faltered and he kicked some invisible rocks before he continued, “Look – this is bad. Very bad. And Grif was, well, a Red, most of all, but he was a cool dude. We hang out, sometimes. Well, Alpha did but you get my point. I liked him.”

“You use past tense,” she pointed out.

“I know we don’t have any proof that he’s gone-“

“So why are you so eager to prove it?”

At the snarl in her voice, Church sighed and moved to stand right in front of her face, trying to meet her eyes. “Because the proof will be either a dead body or Felix telling the truth. And both of these things can be thrown in the guys’ faces in the middle of a firefight. Locus and Felix are smart. They are going to use this to their advantage, and if they manage to stun the guys, they can shoot at them. I don’t want to lose more people, and you don’t want that either.” He paused, sensing her quiet reaction. “If we won’t tell them, it’ll be on a battlefield that they hear that he’s dead. Isn’t it more fair to be able to grieve now? Instead of having to avoid bullets while dealing with the truth. C’mon, Carolina, you know we have to do this.”

There was a quiet hum of a message waiting for her. She already knew it’d be Simmons, asking if their team had found anything.

Carolina inhaled deeply. “I want to discuss it with Kimball first.”

“Okay.” Church watched as she turned around to march back to the jeep with heavy steps, ready to join the others on their way back to Armonia. Quietly, so that only she could hear, he said, “You know it’s not your fault. Right?”

* * *

Simmons was the first one to speak. “But we don’t know for sure?”

“We haven’t found _anything_ ,” Church told them all. “No body, no files mentioning a prisoner, no talk among the guards, not even the color orange is mentioned anywhere, and we’ve heard nothing from Felix and Locus.”

There was a quiet muttering after that, mixed with some of Donut’s sobs, but Simmons ignored it as he leaned further from his seat. “So that means no proof.”

“No. That means no proof that he’s alive.” When he realized he was coming off a bit too harsh, Church flickered slightly, turning away.

With a quiet request, Carolina made him stay silent and she spoke instead, “What he is trying to say is that we’ve received no sign of life so far. And that means we have to prepare for the worst.”

“So…” Donut said, sniffing loudly, “Grif is dead?”

Sarge sat quietly next to him, glaring at the Freelancer through his visor. He hadn’t spoken much the last two days.

Carolina opened her mouth, but no sound left it, resulting in the AI stepping in again. “We are not telling you to hold a burial. Just… Get used to the idea.”

“Dude, that’s brutal.”

“What do you want me to say, Tucker?” he asked, spinning around to face his teammate. “It’s me telling you now or Felix making a joke of it later. And I’m sure the guy is going into details about how Grif-“

“Stop.” Simmons wasn’t aware that he’d spoken before all faces in the room had turned to stare at him. “Just-“ His lip quivered too much to continue, and instead he inhaled, trying to collect himself.

Doyle cleared his throat, looking small under the attention. He asked, “Does that mean there won’t be further scouting missions?”

“I’d keep them going if I knew where to send them,” Kimball replied. Her brown hair kept falling in her eyes and she didn’t bother to push it away. “We’ve used the clues we have. The bases in the Western Approach and the Hanriden Mountain were the only occupied hideouts known to us. We ransacked them and neither the files nor the pirates gave us further leads. We have nothing to go on.”

“So we just give up?”

Kimball’s eyes, usually cold and hardened after too many years with war, had a soft look in them. “Simmons-“

“No. No, that’s not- that’s not fair!” He shook his head before looking around, trying to find some support in the other faces in the crowded room. “Grif needs our help and we- They just took him!”

Most of the soldiers had begun to look uncomfortable, shrinking back in their seat to avoid his dripping eyes. But Wash raised his head, answering him, “None of us were prepared for-“

“Because you were busy guarding Tucker!”

Simmons wasn’t prepared for the stunned silence that followed. He hadn’t even been aware that he was going to speak his thoughts out loud, but his anger was easier to get a hold of than his grief. The pieces fell together now, how Green Team had been shadowed by the Freelancers because they were the ones attacking a base, because they had Tucker, because Felix loathed Tucker, because Tucker was important, because no one had counted on the mercenaries to even realize that Gold Team had a mission on their own, why should they care when no one else did.

Donut broke the silence, still sniffing when he said, “That’s…”

But Simmons wouldn’t let him, not with his tone too patronizing, not with his anger burning brightly inside his chest. His eyes were set on the Freelancer, burning, hurting. “That’s what happened. You were busy helping Green Team with their mission, and no one bothered to check on Gold Team because _why_ should anyone target Grif? He’s not-“ He hiccupped once, hating how his body would break when upset. “He’s not important enough.”

“Simmons,” Carolina tried carefully.

“That’s what you’re saying!” He wasn’t aware that he’d left his seat before he was looking down at them, his finger shaking. “You don’t understand _why_ \- Because he’s a Red? Because he is Grif? _Was_ Grif?”

Sarge was shaking his head at him. “Son.”

Simmons didn’t hear him, too busy wiping his nose, feeding his anger. “We don’t know that he’s dead! If he’s out there somewhere we can’t just – we can’t _not try_ to find him, just because she wants us to give up.”

“Simmons,” Wash tried again, raising his hands. “You are taking this the wrong way-“

“If- if this was Tucker- or Caboose- you wouldn’t- you wouldn’t have agreed! You would have gone rogue, like the- the _Blue_ you are, and you would have done whatever you needed to get them back because you wouldn’t have cared about anything else! But you don’t- you don’t care enough to _try_ now!” He looked around until his desperate eyes met Kimball’s. “Maybe- maybe Felix just can’t contact us! It’s not like he can just knock on our door.”

“Knock knock-“

“Not now, Caboose,” Tucker muttered, expression emotionless as he watched the scene unfold.

“ _Does_ the mercenaries have a way of contacting us?” Simmons asked them, palms pressed against the table to keep his hands from shaking.

Church answered him. “Felix used to spam our frequencies until I got the firewall up and running.” He sent Kimball a nod. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

“Take it down,” Simmons ordered, aware that everyone was staring at him again. But he didn’t care if his cheeks were flushed, if his eyes were still leaking. “If they want something for Grif, we need to know what to do. Take it down.”

“No,” Kimball answered him immediately. “Captain Simmons, I understand your grief – I share it – but I cannot compromise Chorus’ security for one man.”

“And I, for once, agree with her,” Doyle admitted while twiddling his thumbs. “Our data has valuable secrets, I’m afraid, strategies and intel that we cannot risk falling into the wrong hands. The firewall must stay up.”

Kimball continued, “Even if they reached out to us with demands, we wouldn’t give in to them.” Recognizing the look that Simmons was sending her, her glance softened again. “Captain Grif is one man. A great man who sacrificed too much for this cause, but I cannot risk his safety over the citizens of Chorus.”

Simmons opened his mouth, ready to call bullshit, but he found himself unable to do so. The logical part of him, the part that had controlled him most of his life understood the facts, recognized her arguments. It made sense – the signs that Grif was dead, the reasons to keep up the firewall, the ways Felix could manipulate them with demands.

He understood.

But it didn’t make it hurt any less.

So without a word, he turned around, marching out of the war room.

 “Simmons.”

He heard Sarge’s voice quietly say, “No.”, making Donut fall silent right before the door slammed shut behind him.

He went to the bedroom that had become solely his now. He’d spent most of his time here the last two days, being holed up in his bed to isolate himself from pitiful glances and too many questions.

With the door locked behind him, Simmons was prepared to waste his day alone in the darkness. Maybe the rest of the week. He wasn’t quite sure what to do for now.

Without anywhere to look, that meant waiting for the truth. And if Church was right, then the truth would come in the shape of a corpse or Felix’s laughter.

Simmons would prefer to just stay here forever.

From his bunk, he could see the orange helmet lying on the pillow. Kimball had brought it to him yesterday, when they were done checking it for clues. The helmet cam had been off, revealing nothing. It was nothing else but an object of comfort, something for Simmonds to hold on to.

The visor was still intact, a bit stained from mud, but otherwise it looked as Simmons remembered it.

Now, he wasn’t quite sure what to do with it. Should he bury it, put it behind glass?

Simmons’ lip quivered as he tried his best not to _think_ , not to imagine how Grif had died because he knew – he knew it would have been painful, that Felix had enjoyed every moment of it, making it slow, making him scream-

If Grif was still alive, was he screaming now-

The maroon helmet flew across the room, slamming against the wall.

Simmons panted, feeling like he should throw up. But it was so hard to breathe, like his cyborg lungs were collapsing, and it was a painful truth that _this_ , his cybernetics, his sacrifice, had been for nothing in the end. Grif had died anyways.

Dead or dying, it didn’t really matter, because there was nothing he could do, nothing he could-

His eyes fell on his helmet again, maroon and functioning, and then he knew what to do.

* * *

It took him a day.

To his gratefulness, the others knew to leave him alone. Donut sent him a message once, informing him that he’d left a tray with lunch outside his door. Simmons had quickly pulled the food inside, but he hadn’t touched it yet.

He was too busy pulling his helmet apart, stabbing it with his screwdriver. This was technology. He could work with that. He was smart, he knew how to infiltrate a system. This shouldn’t be so hard.

If he could change the helmet’s function, if he could confuse the location, the in-built GPS, maybe he could avoid the firewall. It should be possible, if he just worked hard enough, fast enough.

They didn’t know if Grif was dead. Simmons knew his chances weren’t great – he wasn’t stupid enough to ignore the facts. But if Grif was still alive, just for now, that meant he could be saved, even if the others couldn’t find him.

Simmons just needed the chance.

It was the middle of night, mouth wide open in a yawn, that he realized it could work. He still had Felix’s frequency, a few messages sent between them earlier when they’d been on the same side, when Felix had pretended to be their ally.

Simmons asking where the group was supposed to meet for today’s training, Felix’s replies being brief, too many abbreviations and slang for Simmons’ liking.

But now, with his breath stuck in his throat and his heart beating against his ribs, Simmons stared into his HUD, knowing he would be going against the others’ advice.

It was far from perfect.

But it was the only way to get the truth.

S I M M O N S: _Do you have Grif?_              (Sent 03:06 AM)

S I M M O N S: _This is Simmons_ (Sent 03:08 AM)

He waited, his stomach twisting whenever he realized just what he was doing.

S I M M O N S: _Is he alive?_ (Sent 03:48 AM)

He stared, eyes red-rimmed from tears and lack of sleep. He could feel his eyelids drop, head nodding whenever he gave in to sleep, waking up a few moments later. The sleep would always grant him a sweet relief of confusion – when he was too tired to remember why he was here, why his chest hurt so much.

Then the memories would hit him, and Simmons bit the inside of his cheek.

The low hum from the helmet let him know he’d received a reply.

[R E D A C T E D]: _lmao_ (Sent 04:01 AM)

Simmons knew that whatever Felix was laughing at was far from funny.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys asked for a multichapter, I turned it into one! Prepare for hurt ahead! I hope you'll all enjoy this journey!


	3. Such Truths

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: the very end of the chapter will contain a dialogue about graphic torture.

The moment Simmons received the picture, he wished he hadn’t. “No,” he said, jaw dropping in horror. “No, no, _nononono_.”

Whatever relief he might have felt from seeing Grif alive, the fear overshadowed it all. It was mirrored in Grif’s eyes, wide and terrified in a manner that Simmons had never seen in him before.

Not when he’d been lying in the dead grass in Blood Gulch, face pale, bloody, armor shattered beneath the tank’s weight, flesh flattened in the process. He’d been staring at Simmons, eyes blank and unseeing, not reacting to Simmons stuttering his name. Then his eyelids had dropped, and when he’d woken up, Simmons’ heart had been in his chest.

Simmons knew that Grif had been scared when he’d been dragged over the edge. He’d heard it in his voice, that way he’d screamed Simmons’ name. He could still hear it echo when remembered that snow-covered scene. They’d both thought it’d be Grif’s last word.

During their time on Chorus, the nightmares had become worse for both of them. Simmons didn’t know what Grif’s were about, but he had some good guesses. Sometimes Grif would sit up straight in bed, jolting awake with a wordless yell. They hadn’t really talked about it, but Simmons understood. He had those nightmares too.

But even then Grif hadn’t seemed as terrified as in this picture. There was something raw about his expression, a depth in him that he’d usually never allow anyone to see. But the blown pupils had been stripped of all defense, and Simmons could stare straight into the terror that Grif had felt.

He didn’t dare to wonder what had occurred before the picture had been taken.

[S I M M O N S]: _You said you wouldn’t hurt him_                       (Sent 04:21 AM)

[R E D A C T E D]: _I havent_ (Sent 04:22 AM)

[R E D A C T E D]: _yet_ (Sent 04:22 AM)

The more Simmons stared at the photo, the worse it became. He could see the bags beneath his eyes, the bruise on his cheek.

It could be worse. He knew that. Half of him had expected to see Grif suffering from torture – and Simmons had spent too much time wondering how it’d taken place, if they’d use a knife or electroshock or…

Grif was alive. That was more than the others believed at the moment.

And if Grif was alive, that meant he could be saved. Simmons had to take comfort in that fact.

But there was no way to deny that Simmons was the only one who could keep it that way.

Felix had already warned him what would happen if he told anybody of their newly made contact. The idea of spies here in Armonia was terrifying – but it could be very real.

Simmons didn’t dare to risk finding out by going against Felix’ orders.

[S I M M O N S]: _What do you want me to do?_                                                              (Sent 04:23 AM)

[R E D A C T E D]: _Armor blueprints_ (Sent 04:25 AM)

[R E D A C T E D]: _All of them. Fed, Rebel. What you wear_ (Sent 04:25 AM)

[R E D A C T E D]: _And dont forget the blue idiot_ (Sent 04:26 AM)

Simmons frowned. This wasn’t what he’d expected.

But then again – he’d barely dared to wonder what Felix would ask of him.

[S I M M O N S]: _Why?_                                                                  (Sent 04:27 AM)

[R E D A C T E D]: _we are not buddies. I dont tell you shit_ (Sent 04:28 AM)

[R E D A C T E D]: _do what I say or you boyfriend will pay_ (Sent 04:29 AM)

[R E D A C T E D]: _its easy_ (Sent 04:29 AM)

Simmons was already doing the calculations – the Federal Army had done a great job of keeping stats on supplies and progress. Surely, they’d had some blueprints stored away. The Rebels would prove to be a harder task. With limited supplies, the army had grown from what they could find, armor plates thrown together to make it work.

But surely there had to be some prints somewhere. Some traditional schematics, like their own traditional Sim Trooper armor.

They had to be somewhere.

Simmons had no choice but to find them.

[S I M M O N S]: _And you’ll let him go then?_                                                                 (Sent 04:31 AM)

[R E D A C T E D]: _sure_ (Sent 04:31 AM)

[R E D A C T E D]: _want to see whatll happen if you don’t follow orders_ (Sent 04:32 AM)

[S I M M O N S]: _I’ll get them_                                                                  (Sent 04:33 AM) 

* * *

He doubted anyone would realize he’d been up all night, wondering what the consequences of his actions would be. They probably just thought his red-rimmed eyes were caused by crying.

Well, they weren’t wrong.

He’d just finished transferring the last data file when Donut suddenly sat down on his desk, hands folded and mascara smudged.

Simmons made sure to close his tabs before he could glance at the screen.

“Hey,” Donut said.

“Hi,” Simmons said. He didn’t look up.

Donut’s polished nails tapped against the surface of the desk. The soldier had to clear his throat twice before speaking. “We were thinking about having a Red Team meeting. Things considered…”

“Which things?”

“Maybe,” Donut said and then smacked his lips when he ran out of words. “ _Maybe_ we should discuss what to do next.”

“But we’re not going to do anything,” Simmons said, suddenly realizing how dry his mouth had become. “That was Kimball’s whole point.”

Donut let out this strange noise – like a gasp that died midway, or a strangled sob. Something in between.

His hand reached for a handkerchief hidden in an armor compartment.

Biting the inside of his cheek in annoyance, Simmons listened to Donut blow his nose. Discreetly, he removed his data drive from the computer.

“Do you think Grif is still alive?” Donut asked him just as he was about to leave his chair.

Simmons froze as if shocked – and he could just imagine it, Felix with the torture tools, watching Grif jolt when the volts were sent through him – and turned his head again. “Does it matter?” he asked, trying not to sound bitter and failing. “It just… We can’t save him.”

Being alive would mean potential torture. But it also meant an opportunity to save him.

Simmons clenched his fists.

Donut sniffed again, dragging mascara down his cheek. “Sarge still really wants to see us.”

“Why?” He didn’t have time for this. His head was pounding, his hands were shaking, his throat was tightened with guilt, and all he could think of was the look in Grif’s terrified eyes.

Donut reached for him, fingers brushing against his shoulder in comfort. “Maybe he is sad, too.”

Unwillingly, Simmons let out a snort and pulled himself away.

The data drive was cold inside his fist, its edges digging into his skin. Simmons just gripped it tighter.

Then he looked up, and for the first time he noticed the hurt in Donut’s open expression. It didn’t match with the sadness in his eyes, it was something else, something new, something that Simmons had been the cause of.

He wondered how they would all feel if they found out what he’d been doing.

For a moment the need to share his burden became so strong – as if his headache would disappear if he told the truth, if it’d make his heart calm down, as if it’d increase the chances of saving Grif.

But it would only dismantle them. That was the truth, and that was the most important thing.

“Donut,” Simmons said before he could stop himself.

The pink soldier stared at him, a single tear falling down his cheek with a subtle elegance, like a practiced scene for a soap opera.

Simmons bit his lip and reminded himself of the horrible reality. “Nothing,” he said before turning away.

* * *

The moment he pressed _send_ , the guilt settled in his stomach, heavy and unwanted. It like a big cat that had chosen to settle on top of him despite him being allergic, causing his skin to swell and itch, for vile to crawl up his throat.

It was too late by then, he told himself. A quick glance thrown in the direction of Grif’s abandoned bed reminded him he had no choices left.

He imagined what pictures Felix would send him if he had gone against his orders. Of just what he’d have done to Grif.

For a moment, that made him appreciate the silence from Felix.

It didn’t last long, however, before the silence crept up on him.

[S I M M O N S]: _And you’ll let him go then?_                                                                 (Sent 08:33 PM)

There were no replies.

Simmons had begun to pace back and forth at that point, hands clenched and his brain suggesting that Felix might just not have seen his message yet, or he was too busy reading the files to answer.

Small feeble hopes that turned increasingly less likely by every passing minute.

[S I M M O N S]: _I gave you the files._                                                                  (Sent 08:59 PM)

[R E D A C T E D]: _you sure did_ (Sent 09:01 AM)

[R E D A C T E D]: _thanks_ (Sent 09:01 AM)

Simmons stared at the communicator in his hand. Shook it once, then twice.

Bit the inside his cheek and began to pace again. Breathed in. Then out.

Waited. Recalled the horrifying feeling of power when he’d realized he was the only one who could attempt to save Grif. How he, for a brief moment, had thought he could do it.

For a small sacrifice, of course. He’d- he’d done something very wrong, going against Kimball’s wishes, making deals with the enemy. He wasn’t even sure what they needed the armor details for – something bad, of course, anything involving the mercenaries was bound to be bad.

But honestly, he’d been relieved that it hadn’t been worse. That he hadn’t been forced to trade Grif for another teammate, that he’d have to hurt someone or help set up an ambush.

This, at least, had been easy and seemingly innocent.

How much damage could armor do? Defense was the opposite of offence.

Simmons bit his lip, suddenly noticing Grif’s hoodie on the floor, half-hidden by the bed.

He’d done this for him, he’d done this because he had to, he’d done thing because-

_He’d done this_.

[S I M M O N S]: _You said you’d let him go._                                                                  (Sent 10:51 PM)

* * *

“Wash said he’s here to help you,” Tucker told Simmons after he’d reluctantly opened the door at the promise of lunch. “Carolina too. But I figured you didn’t want to see them.”

“I- You are right,” Simmons said, accepting the tray with a nod. It wasn’t even because he was hungry – his stomach was protesting at the thought of food – but he knew he needed the nutrition to keep going. It’d been three days since he’d sent the files to Felix, and he hadn’t felt like leaving the room yet. “Thanks.”

He reached to close the door but Tucker was faster, stepping inside the room before he could stop him. “Can this wait?” he asked and watched in annoyance as the Blue invaded his private space.

“The others aren’t sure if you want to… clean up in here.” He kicked one of Grif’s empty cans – orange taste, his favorite. “If Grif’s stuff… Shit, you know what I mean.”

“I don’t-“

“Yeah, I told them to drop it.”

Simmons dared to raise his head enough to get a glimpse of Tucker’s expression. The brown eyes were darker than usually but also softer, staring directly at Simmons in pity.

He knew that Tucker understood. Maybe that was the worst part of it.

“Thanks,” he said, looking away. He hoped his cheeks wouldn’t burn in shame, but the unwanted guilt kept throbbing in his stomach.

He still hadn’t received a reply from Felix. He didn’t know what the blue prints would be used for, or what had happened to Grif.

“They’ll probably lay off for a while. Grey still wants to see you, though. Just figured it’d be fair to warn you.”

“I just want to be alone.”

“I know,” Tucker said, as if oblivious to the fact that he was in Simmons’ room. Talking to him. Right now. “I get it.”

Simmons wasn’t aware he was crying again before he felt a trickle on his cheek. He wiped it away with an angry motion.

“What if Grif isn’t dead?” Tucker cleared his throat. “I mean, what if there’s still hope?”

“Kimball doesn’t think so,” Simmons whispered.

“Since when did we listen to authority figures?” Tucker asked, probably hoping to earn a snort from him and failing. After shifting the weight on his feet awkwardly, he said, “Look, scouts stumbled upon some pirates today.”

Simmons’ head jerked upwards.

Holding up his hands to calm him down, Tucker continued, “They didn’t mention Grif but… We think we might know where they’re coming from. And we’re planning an attack.”

“The other pirates didn’t know anything. Why should these?” Simmons said bitterly. He’d had hope. He’d been given it, attached to the picture of Grif, and he’d believed he could save him. He’d been wrong.

“Because… They might have seen Locus.”

“ _They did_?” Simmons gasped, taking a step forward without intending to do so.

“Well, they think so. Pretty hard to say when the guy is invisible half of the time.”

Would it count as going against Felix’s orders by chasing after them? Did it even matter? Felix’s had already failed to uphold his part of the deal. It shouldn’t even be a surprise, judging from his previous betrayal.

And yet Simmons had dared to trust his words. A tiny hope told him that maybe, _maybe_ Grif had been released somewhere, stumbling his way home. But he doubted it.

“We’re planning the attack right now,” Tucker let him know. “I figured you might want to join us.”

For the first time in days, Simmons left his bedroom.

* * *

Carolina didn’t ask him if he was ready for it. He appreciated that – either she’d been told to leave him alone, or perhaps she just understood his motives.

The latter was probably the case.

They all wanted revenge. He could feel the tension in the Pelican as they came closer and closer to the target.

“Red Team will take the West Wing,” the Freelancer told them and Sarge was the only one who acknowledged this by nodding. “If any of you,” she continued, turning her head to stare at them all through her visor, “see Felix or Locus, you tell the rest of us. Do not engage alone. Understood?”

Simmons wasn’t sure why everyone was staring at him.

The base was bigger than the ones they’d investigated before, but it looked abandoned – wines growing on the walls, a broken antenna tower leaning across the front area, casting a large shadow upon the airship as it landed.

“Go, go, go,” Carolina ordered them as they jumped out. Tucker had to keep a hand on Caboose’s back to lead him in the right direction as they stormed the base.

Simmons followed Sarge, focusing on that bright Red color as they made their way inside, suddenly creeping along waterlogged walls.

He could hear gunshots in the distance, so vague he didn’t jump at the sound. For once his hands weren’t shaking. His body was tense, focused. He didn’t even notice when he’d outpaced the red color.

“We’re doing this for Grif,” Donut said behind him, followed by a sniff. “Right, Sarge?”

“Hardly,” their leader snorted. “We all know the fatass would prefer a public buffet.”

“For everyone,” Donut whispered in awe, as if already planning the memorial.

“Eso es lo que significa 'público'.” [That is what ‘public’ means.]

Simmons swallowed the spit in his mouth and said nothing.

They rounded a corner, the gunshot noises fading by every step. “C’mon,” a voice growled, and Simmons looked up in surprise when he realized it didn’t belong to his team.

The pirate was standing near the door, fumbling with his rifle. He slammed it against the wall a few times – obviously violating every code of gun safety – trying to get it work, before he realized he wasn’t alone.

“Fuck off,” he growled, and just as they raised their rifles, the grenade was thrown in their direction.

Sarge’s hand on his shoulder pulled Simmons back behind the wall for safety. The grip was strong enough to make him stumble backwards as he was let go of. When the smoke cleared, he saw that Donut and Lopez were already charging towards the door again, after the pirate that had begun to flee, having used his last grenade.

“Hey, you!” Donut yelled as he began the chase. “I have questions and no way to ask them politely!”

He was followed closely by Lopez and Sarge – and Simmons, until he saw that orange color out of the corner of his eyes.

He froze, not hearing the loud footsteps as his team continued to run after the pirate, never realizing he’d fallen behind.

For a moment he wondered if he’d gone mad – orange meant Grif, but that couldn’t be right, couldn’t be true…

And it wasn’t.

Simmons took a step into the empty control room. The first thing he noticed was the broken screens, all black and cracked. It instinctively pained him to see technology tortured like that, abandoned.

Then Felix stepped out of the shadows and Simmons forgot about anything else.

“Surprise,” he said, tilting his head.

Simmons stared at the armor – oh so orange – then at the emotionless visor. Then behind him, hoping, mentally crossing his fingers that this was it, that he’d brought Grif with him, that it’d be alright now that he’d messed everything up.

“Did you- Is Grif with you?” he asked, voice breaking in the process.

He kept a firm grip on his pistol but didn’t dare raise it. Not when Felix hadn’t touched his gun yet. The mercenary seemed almost friendly, casually strolling towards him.

“Well, that sounds like a very, _very_ stupid idea. Definitely not something I would do.” Out of nowhere, a dagger appeared in his hand. He threw it once, catching it before pointing it in Simmons’ direction as he asked, “Aren’t you supposed to be the smart one?”

Instinctively, Simmons took a step backwards. His fingers itched to call the others on the radio, but he had a feeling – no, he _knew_ that the mercenary could kill him before he even managed to touch his helmet.

“I- But you said-“

“Yeah, well, I also said you were the greatest heroes of all time. C’mon, Simmons, don’t tell me you’ve already forgotten that bump in our relationship.” He laughed darkly as he caught the knife again. “I doubt any of your friends would trust me.”

Simmons bit his lip, breath stuck in the middle of his throat.

“No, wait,” Felix said, correcting himself. “This wasn’t about trust. It was about fear. And boy, did you seem terrified.”

“I- you- The files-“

“Look, I’m only here because I’m getting really, _really_ tired of your spam mails. So let’s make something clear.” With the dagger perfectly balanced on his fingers, the mercenary took a step towards him. Then another.

Simmons didn’t move. He couldn’t. Not with his body tensed up like this, finger frozen around the trigger like his hand was made of marble.

His brain knew what would be coming next.

Maybe that was why his vision began to flicker, his knees about to collapse.

“Grif is dead,” Felix let him know. “I killed him. Slowly. Do you want to know how I did it? Such a shame I didn’t record it – you only realize your mistakes in hindsight, am I right?”

Something left Simmons’ lips. Not quite a sob, not quite a scream. Yet.

“I wish you could have seen it. I wish you could have heard the fat sizzle. Screamed like a pig. Began to sob when I made him eat his own eyes like grapes. Well, I guess the tears stopped after that. The screaming didn’t. I cut him open and the guy still wouldn't shut up. Didn’t see that coming.”

Bile was crawling the way up his throat, suffocating the scream.

“Hanging on just enough to say your name over and over.” Felix let out a long sigh. “A bit too cheesy for me. But I figured you wanted to know that. No need to thank me.”

With a wordless yell, Simmons lunged at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, I just sent the FINAL final edits to the publisher (I swear to the gods, editing keeps tracking me down, it never ends) and the book should be out at the end of April. I can't wait. Anyway, this should mean that hopefully I can focus on my fics now (and my bachelor. Woops. Still gotta write that.)
> 
> Thanks for reading, sorry for the darkness, it's gonna get worse, I'm sorry, forgive me, blame haley.


	4. Phantom Limb

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for brief mention of vomiting.

There were sparks flying from his arm. Simmons stared at it, trying to focus on the brightness. It helped against the overwhelming nausea, the urge to just close his eyes and escape the chaos for a moment.

That was something Grif would do. He’d always said that napping was the best way to get through the day. Simmons would call it bullshit and yell for him to wake up.

Now-

Simmons let out a single sob.

“Simmons.”

Carolina’s voice was gentle, but it didn’t match the fire in her eyes. Simmons recognized it from when they’d first met, when she’d been the scary Freelancer shouting orders at them, her mind only filled with a need for revenge.

She was angry.

He was too. He knew that, deep inside, but on top of that hot burning core were so many layers of dread and devastation.

And then there was the pain. It’d been subdued at first, not important enough to break through the despair. But now when he looked at the sparks it began to reach him, like an itch at first, then hot glowing jabs.

“Ow,” he said, voice rather numb.

“Sarge, can it be detached?”

New hands were on his shoulders, holding him down while others pulled. The sparks grew larger – then died out.

He watched in vague interest how armor plates were removed – and then his entire arm went along with it.

For a brief second he found this alarming. Then his entire life came crashing down on him, and he remembered the surgery, his cybernetics.

Grif had his real arm.

That meant it had to be rotting somewhere, right now.  He doubted that the Mercenaries had cared enough to bury him. Maybe burned the corpse, maybe-

Simmons’ eyes began to sting again as he imagined Grif’s still body on a floor somewhere, all bloodied and torn apart-

Carolina’s reaction skill was as quick as always, shoving a bucket in front of Simmons before the vomit left his mouth. As he spat the vile from his tongue, his eyes darted around.

Colors. Familiar ones. Blue and Red shapes. The low rumble of an engine. They were in a Pelican, he realized, Lopez at the controls and Sarge standing right next to him, visor turned in Simmons’ direction. The broken cyborg arm was lying at his feet.

Simmons blinked, trying to remember how he’d entered the ship. He couldn’t recall walking, he couldn’t even feel his feet.

Looking back, he remembered-

“Felix,” he spat, the anger bursting through the numbness, chasing the cold away.

“Not here,” Carolina replied immediately. She was crouched in front of him, one hand grabbing his wrist tightly. “I tried to pin him down. I’m sorry.”

The memories began to return to him now.

Pulling the trigger. Felix snarling. The daggers flying through the air. Leaping, dodging, then seeing the sharp metal buried in his arm. A flash of aqua-

“Carolina,” he croaked. Was his helmet off? He raised his chin, just slightly, removing his glance from the vomit bucket to the Freelancer instead.

Her green eyes were still burning.

So were Simmons', but only in a painful way, causing tears to fall down his cheeks. “He-“

“I know,” she said, voice still soft like a comforting blanket wrapped around him. “I heard.”

The world grew faint again, just for a second, as he recalled Felix describing Grif’s death.

Carolina squeezed his hand. “He will pay,” she promised.

The ship was uncomfortably quiet.

Simmons wanted to answer, to let out the string of curses that was ready at the tip of his tongue. He wanted the same revenge, wanted to see Felix suffer, just to wipe the smug smile off his face, to make something _right_.

Because Simmons had been tricked, and he’d been given hope. He’d been foolish, he knew that, and with that realization it seemed like his entire identity had been stolen from him. But he wasn’t planning on making the mistake again.

Felix had toyed with him. Like he’d done with Grif, just more macabre, more bloody and-

He retched again, spitting in the bucket.

Whenever he closed his eyes, he could see Grif rotting slowly in front of him, just out of reach.

* * *

“Do you think they are targeting Red Team?” Wash asked her, joining her at the balcony. From here they could see the outskirts of Armonia, as well as the looming main building of the hospital that they’d just left.

Despite the knives hitting the limb of metal, Grey had insisted a proper check-up for Simmons. Carolina suspected she might have been looking for any signs of shock more than anything.

The cybernetic limb was damaged, but not beyond repair. Grey asked for a day or two to work on it, and Sarge had huffed that he was willing to help. Simmons had stayed silent.

Carolina took off her helmet, letting the wind play with her hair. “When I found them, Simmons was the one pulling the trigger. Felix was talking more than anything. He was playing with Simmons. I heard him.”

“So,” Wash said after a long exhale, “Grif is dead?”

Carolina kept her eyes on the falling sun. “Epsilon was right. He warned us this would come. It’s not unexpected.”

“I haven’t told the others anything,” Wash said, “but I think they know. Simmons’ reaction…” He winced. The moment Carolina had ordered for them to regroup and had dragged a flailing, sobbing Simmons with her, it had been clear that something was wrong.

They’d all guessed what.

“Felix gave him the details of Grif’s death.”

“Oh?”

He looked at her, and when she returned his glance her eyes were piercing. “I won’t repeat them. But…” She clenched her fists. “It was a painful death. And they will pay for that.”

“Of course.” Wash reached out, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Chorus is ready to fight. And the others are angry, too. Now more than ever.”

“Do you think this is their strategy? Take them out one by one?” Carolina asked him. Her mind felt clear in an empty way, but a necessary release of pressure nonetheless. She’d left Epsilon with Tucker, letting the Blues deal with their own grief. She’d needed this talk with Wash, needing the reassurances.

Epsilon would catch up on her in the evening, and hopefully he would be willing to share the details about the mood among the Sim Troopers. She didn’t know them well enough to comfort. Or, maybe she did, and she just didn’t have the courage.

She still remembered Simmons’ angry accusations. Epsilon had denied them, reminded her again and again that not everything was within her control.

But the maroon soldier was right. She hadn’t expected the attack, and because of that they hadn’t been prepared for it.

And Grif had been the one to pay for it.

Wash looked troubled at the thought. She knew his thoughts were going to Blue Team, and for a moment she imagined it – Wash kneeling next to the bodies of his teammates. “We won’t let them,” he finally said, voice dark.

Carolina thought about Grif’s smile when he was offered leftovers, and for a moment she wondered in dread how long her list of dead friends could grow.

* * *

Simmons was effective, even when missing an arm.

He woke up after a night filled with nightmares – Grif, waving at him as if nothing was wrong, and then Simmons had remembered that he was dead, cut in pieces and thrown away, and then the blood had begun to seep through the cracks of the orange armor, reaching Simmons’ feet – and immediately realized that he needed to clean the room.

If he didn’t do it himself, then Donut would come and offer his help. That meant he would hold out every piece that had belonged to Grif, he would hug it and sob and try to comfort Simmons through his tears. He would valorize every object, talk about what memories they would bring him…

Simmons couldn’t handle that.

He licked his lips, deciding that breakfast could wait until he’d finished the job. He wasn’t hungry, anyway.

Slowly, with stiff movements, he pulled out the two half-filled boxes from beneath his bed. For their personal belongings, Kimball had told them. As if they hadn’t crashed on this planet to begin with.

Then he turned his head, watching Grif’s bed. It was still unkept, clothes and snack wrappers lying on top of the stained blanket.

He threw away all the wrappers, knowing they would grow mold in the end. Several of them were only half-eaten, as if Grif had planned to come home and finish them. His actual snack storage was beneath his bed.

Simmons looked at the worn cardboard box with a sad smile, reading the message _FUCK OFF BITTERS_ that had been written across of it with a black marker.

“Fuck you,” he whispered before pushing the box beneath his own bed without even opening it. He knew that all the snacks were way beyond the best before date, but…

They’d been Grif’s treasure.

He couldn’t throw it out.

The clothes were next, stained and smelly and wrinkled. He doubted Grif even knew how to work an iron. He put them in his own boxes and gave up on trying to fold them – with one arm it seemed an impossible task. He supposed that Grif wouldn’t mind stuffing them into a box in a mess.

He’d lived in a mess.

He was a mess.

Simmons sniffed. With no tissues, he found himself burying his face in Grif’s orange hoodie. It hid the tears and the smell was comforting. A mix of cigarette, chocolate and sweat reached his nostrils, and Simmons sobbed until the orange color was covered with snot.

It was another comfort to know that Grif wouldn’t mind the stains.

He put the hoodie on his own bed, with a growing fear that he was going to need it later. But as long as it happened within the solitude of the bedroom he didn’t care too much. His entire childhood had been filled with nights spent on crying against his pillow.

It’d changed when he’d been forced to get a roommate. Grif. Snorting at Simmons, asking him if he was crying like a baby, why he had broken the mirrors, refusing to leave him alone, filling the nights with useless chatting…

Beneath Grif’s pillow he found a package of cigarettes, half of them missing, and two worn photographs. He held them carefully, watching a younger Kai smile at the camera, the sun-touched face filled with dimples.

The other photo was of Red Team. Simmons remembered taking the photo. It’d been Donut’s stupid idea, and he’d been the one to choreograph it, telling them to smile at the camera. Grif had just flipped it up and shoved an elbow against Simmons’ stomach.

Simmons took all three items and placed them under his own pillow.

Then there was nothing left to do but to tear off the bed linen, telling himself to wash it later.

The left side of the room was empty now, a bare bed, ready for a new owner.

Simmons glared at the sight until his breathing started to hitch. There. Done. Over with.

Effectiveness.

That was the only way out of the dread.

As he tried to steady his breathing, Simmons exhaled deeply until his lungs started to burn.

And then it hit him.

He had one last thing to do.

Texting was rather difficult with only one arm, but the anger fueled him. _That_ was his new strength to get up in the morning. Probably not healthy but-

Grif hadn’t cared about healthy.

And Carolina had been all about that vengeance route, and she’d turned out fine! Somewhat fine, at least.

He only sent Felix one last message before activating the firewall. He would never take it down again. Anything else he had to say to the mercenary had to happen in person.

Simmons promised himself that.

[S I M M O N S]: _Fuck you._                                                                                     (Sent 01:03 PM)

* * *

 

The man practically fell into Temple’s arms. It was a pleasantly warm burden. “He is perfect,” he couldn’t help but say.

The mercenaries shared a glance but he didn’t truly care about what they were thinking. They were reaching the end of their deal, after all.

“Loco,” he proceeded to say, “hand them the blueprints.”

The blue soldier did what he was told, and Felix snatched the data drive in a quick moment.

For a brief second Temple was alert – then the mercenary tilted his head and exclaimed joyfully, “Thank you for shopping at _The Mercs’ Used Goods_. Remember, no refund! So do be careful not to break him.”

As the orange gloved reached out to pet his shoulder, Grif did wince in his semi-conscious state. Temple pulled him closer, hoping to grant some comfort.

“Are we sure it’s house-trained?” Surge huffed in a weak attempt of humor.

The mercenary in dark armor – the one who had a vibe as if he’d never laughed before in his life – took a step forward. “You were precise in your in your demand that he shouldn’t be harmed. Because if this there has been no physical punishments.”

“Well, I’m sure there were no needs of those,” Temple said. He could feel Grif twitch slightly, trying to regain his footing.

“No comments,” Felix just smirked. “At all.”

“Let’s call this transaction complete,” Temple said stiffly, moving towards the exit. The mercenaries had been excellent dealers so far, very polite and keeping their promises, but he knew better than to trust them a hundred percent.

This world had taught him that much. You were alone. You only took care of your own.

He gave Grif another squeeze. The poor soul should know that someone was keeping him safe now.

“Bye!”  Loco yelled. The mercenaries never replied, and Temple understood why.

Grif wasn’t exactly a light weight – not that Temple was complaining. Biff had been heavyset, and this was just another heartwarming familiarity. But it made it quite difficult to pull him along, his limp body slumped against his chest plate.

“Get the fuck over here and help,” he snarled at Gene who didn’t look too busy at the moment.

The maroon soldier huffed but did as he was told, of course, grabbing Grif’s left arm.

“Shmiimm,” Grif muttered, eyelids falling close.

By the time they could drop him in one of the seats, he was practically asleep. Temple sat down next to him, brushing hair out of his face to admire it further. When he pressed his thumb against the scar, smooth and weathered, he couldn’t help but frown.

They’d hurt him. Left scratches on him. Like children playing carelessly with a toy that they didn’t know how to appreciate. And he knew deep inside that it would have gotten Grif killed in the end.

That was why he had to step in to help. It was too late to save Biff, but at least he could save this orange soldier from Project Freelancer.

In his drugged sleep, Grif’s head tilted to rest against Temple’s shoulder. His breath was warm against his neck, and it reminded him of all the times he and Biff had spent the entire night watching movies, making it a competition to see who would fall asleep first.

Temple couldn’t help but smile.

“He’s cuuute,” Cronut sang while Lorenzo began to move the ship away, getting out of the mercenaries’ shadow.

Temple wasn’t even sure how criminals like those got their hands on a big ship like that, but he’d of course noticed the guy in suit and tie. He didn’t like people like that, the ones with clean hands and narrowed eyes. The ones who paid others to do the dirty work. Like Project Freelancer.

But at least that Hargrove had claimed to hate the Project too. So Temple could survive one single deal with him.

And the man had been strangely interested in their inventions.

Of course it made sense with their plans. The mercenaries hadn’t exactly kept the whole idea secret for them. Which was just another reason to get the hell out of here.

He didn’t need to be close to Chorus, not with the business that would come once the others were dealt with.

His fingers began to play with the black hair as his mind wandered. Grif would have been just another body among many. He would have died needlessly. But Temple had bought him free from that fate. He’d saved him.

“I’ve seen better,” Gene huffed, as pessimistic as always. Perhaps even a bit jealous? It wouldn’t surprise Temple.

At the sound of Gene’s voice, Grif jerked forwards with an unexpected eagerness. “Simmnnnsss,” he muttered before falling slack again.

Temple caught himself glaring daggers at Gene before he realized that perhaps he was the jealous one.

* * *

Sleeping reminded him of Hawaii. In his dreams he would see the ocean, blue and beautiful, vision blurring when he tried to reach out with a non-existing hand. The half-awake state was even better, vision fading in and away, like rocked by gentle waves. The sensation of moving and being stuck at the same time, something soft caressing his skin, lips pressed to the back of his head, seafoam reaching him.

And then he heard Simmons’ voice.

He twisted, trying to reach for him. Simmons was always so warm, yet a grounding comfort with the cold touch of the metal limbs.

But why was he here? He- he remembered the cell, the bare walls, and Felix’s laughter. The unyielding grasp of the chain around his ankle, as if Simmons’ hand had been locked around it.

But Simmons had been gone, so far away, and Grif had scratched his fingernails against metal, he’d slept and waited, and now-

There was a warmth on his back, fingers pulling his hair.

And the voice-

“-sure he’s worth-“

Simmons. But Simmons was back on Chorus, and Grif was stuck inside four walls, alone, but-

There was an ocean inside his skull, the sound of waves washing ashore whenever he let his head tilt. Hands on him, holding him, carrying him, floating, falling-

Heavy. Always heavy with the mattress beneath him. The same bed in the same cell, day- How long had passed? No light, no way of telling, just time running out with every breath.

Would what come next be worse?

Felix- Felix had been-

The knife in his mouth, biting, taste of metal, then the water and laughter-

Simmons. He’d mentioned Simmons. He remembered that now, like a ray of sun breaking through the heavy layer of the clouds inside his head. Simmons. Felix had said-

He was going to kill Simmons, and Grif couldn’t-

Grif was-

“-right here-“

“-now-“

“-over with-“

A blanket around him, and his fingers curled into the fabric, keeping it there. Was he still naked? The shower-

A sharp pain between his shoulder blades. Simmons pinching him in the morning to get him to leave the bed. Wake up, fatass, or it’s water the next time.

Grif hummed into his pillow – when did he get one of those? Felix would never – feeling pleasantly warm and comfortable. The mattress was soft beneath him, so much better than the one in the cell-

Where was he?

His eyelids were too heavy to open, too much energy that he didn’t have. And if-

He didn’t want to hear Felix’s laughter again. Didn’t want to hear him say Simmons’ name.

Sleep was an escape from all that. He’d always said that – sleep was the easiest way to escape bullshit.

There was a comforting smell of- of food. Cheese, grease. Sammy’s Pizza after a 12 hours shift, sore back, worn couch, Kai’s teaching laughter as she pulled his head.

Grif smiled, a heavy sigh leaving his lips.

“Sleep,” someone told him.

It was too late to resist the command, but before he fell into the oblivion, he frowned, fingers twitching twice before going limp.

That wasn’t Simmons’ voice.

* * *

“Hey,” Matthews said as placed himself next to Bitters, so close that the wind would throw the smoke into his eyes.

Bitters wondered if that was why he was here– if he’d come to tell to stop the bad habit. If Matthews was brave enough today, he might even attempt to steal his cigarettes. Bitters hoped he was here to complain.

His paranoid thoughts were already preparing for Matthews asking if it was true, if Bitters had really been a coward enough to close his eyes-

“Do you ever wonder-?” Matthews began and then he was cut off.

Saved by the bell, Bitters supposed, until he turned around.

“Mouths shut, and chins up,” Sarge yelled at them. “Gather round before I change my mind. All that orange is giving me a headache.”

The training hall fell quiet around them. No one on Gold Team had truly put effort into exercise anyway – what was the point now when Grif was gone?

After exchanging a few confused and somewhat nervous glances, the group of soldiers let go of their training weapons and moved closer to Sarge who had his arms crossed, looking down at them.

Bitters didn’t like the way he was glaring at him and Matthews.

“Today is your unlucky day,” Sarge let them know, cocking his shotgun. “Not only are you now officially known as Orange Team. You also get a new Captain. Me. Captain Sarge. A title so right it just slips off your tongue. Like saliva. Or a good ol’ cuss word. Just like-”

“Fuck,” Bitters said.

“That works too! But minus points for the lack of creativity.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand I'm back to updating my WIPs. All the one-shots have been fun, but I can't abandon my longer stories.
> 
> And how good it feels to bring back Temple and Grif.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	5. The Savior

Death was meant to be the end, Simmons supposed. Except it wasn’t. Not really.

Death was like an explosion, unpleasant and with enough power to shatter the ground beneath your feet. It left a big mess to clean up, and even more to rebuild.

For Grif, death was the end. He didn’t have to do anything, any longer. Not that he would have done _anything_ , anyways. It was always Simmons who was left to deal with the mess, who had to put everything in order.

Like cleaning Grif’s side of the room.

After that came the questions. People were polite, eyes drifting downwards, condolences becoming the new standard greeting.

If Simmons had the choice, he would have stayed in the room to avoid more sad sniffing and red eyes, but his help was needed.

“You knew Grif the best,” Kimball said softly.

It was the truth. He couldn’t deny the fact that he’d spent half of his life right next to Grif – mainly because they’d witnessed them, watched them talk from the other end of the Gulch, listened to their pillow talk, seen them fight with their backs pressed together.

They had been Simmons & Grif.

And now Simmons was stuck with the lonely job of being just Simmons.

“It’s fine,” he replied, voice hoarse from saying ‘thank you’ for all the condolences. “I don’t Grif would have liked anything big. It’s not-“ He kept flexing the fingers on his metal limbs, watching the dents in the metal that had appeared after wringing his hands too much.

“Once the war is over with, his sacrifice will be greatly honored,” Kimball promised him. They had all heard of all the plans for when they’d won; a memorial wall, rebuilding, peace. It seemed far away.

But Simmons was satisfied with the gravestone they’d made for Grif. No body, of course, just his name engraved into the surface. Not even a set of dog tags to hold on to.

Flowers had been put before the grave – and eventually more bouquets had joined, arranged in a circle around the stone. All plucked from the nearby wildlife, shades of orange.

Simmons went to visit it after his talk with Kimball. She’d called his death a sacrifice, but it wasn’t. Grif didn’t stay behind to let his team get away, he didn’t run into a blaze with his gun raised. He was just plucked from their team, tortured and killed because Felix could. It was a butchery.

The bitter taste filled his mouth again, and Simmons closed his eyes. Unfair, that was what it was. And sickening. So horrendous that Simmons could barely keep his lunch down because he kept imagining-

His shaking fingers reached for the pack of cigarettes he kept under his pillow at night, safely hidden in his pocket during the day.

He didn’t have any flowers to give to Grif, and he guessed they both preferred it that way. If anyone in Red Base liked flowers, it was Donut, and so they were obligated to hate them.

But Grif had always dared him to smoke, and Simmons had always refused, and now it was too late to witness Grif laughing at him while he tried to breathe.

It just felt like an instant sore throat. He doubled over, gagging, coughing, smoke escaping from mouth and nostrils.

When his airway was clear again, Simmons managed to stand up properly, a single cough escaping his lips as familiar orders reached his ears.

“Keep it up, numbnuts, or I’m forced to give you support. Just once. Once, because the support of my bullet to your back is a once in a lifetime experience.”

Body numb, Simmons watched Orange Team train in the distance; Sarge yelling at a pair of soldiers, one in orange armor, one in maroon.

Simmons coughed again, every breath painful, and eyes watering for numerous reasons.

* * *

Grif woke to the familiar smell of melted cheese. It tickled his nostrils, pulling the corner of his lips as he slowly opened his eyes.

He must be hallucinating. A leftover reaction from the drug or something like that. The cheese burger was standing in the middle of a plate, a basket of fries next to it.

He was unsure if this was some sort of trap or secret commercial. Slowly sitting up, a groan living his lips as he stretched his sore limbs, he considered leaving it alone.

But – and this was a big but – he was hungry. In the worst case scenario it would be drugged or he’d received some sort of punishment, but what did that matter if he was doomed to die anyway.

He didn’t want to die on an empty stomach.

Plus, it was a _cheese burger_. And it was getting cold by the second.

Without hesitating, Grif grabbed the burger and shoved it in his mouth. For a moment he was pretty sure he fell a tear. He couldn’t help it; he couldn’t remember the last time he’d tasted something this salty, this creamy, the perfect mix of beef and cheese and bun.

The years had been filled with so many MREs, and Chorus hadn’t exactly been better, with the lack of supplies leading to strict rationing.

And the food in the mercenaries’ cell…

He shuddered, taking a pause from chewing to look up and take in his surroundings. If the room could be described as a cell, it was bigger than the previous one, and more comfortable. The bed was bigger, the mattress softer with a proper blanket and pillow. There was a small table next to the bed and a chair across of it, but Grif was the only person in the room.

He leaned back in his bed when he picked up the fries, for once eating them one by one as he tried to get a grasp of the situation. The salty taste was a pleasant comfort, and it made it easier to push away the memories of Felix and his knife and the pill…

Eventually he ran out of fries and that left him with nothing to do in an empty room. Grif turned his head, trying to spot any cameras in the ceiling but failing to find it. That had to be a good sign, he supposed.

He felt better now, with a full stomach and a rested body. Not great, all things considered but…

The last thing he remembered was Felix whispering into his ear, then the hands of a stranger. Not exactly a calming memory, but since he wasn’t currently dead or tortured or chained up, he figured it had to be an improvement from his last imprisonment.

Of course, that didn’t solve the crisis on Chorus. His full stomach twisted painfully at the thought of Simmons and the others, having to face mercenaries and their definitely evil plan. He still remembered Felix’s snarl when as he said that he’d told Simmons that he’d died, and Grif- well, Grif couldn’t really do anything.

He bit his lip, forcing his thoughts away from Simmons and towards Sarge instead. At least the old man had spoken about Grif’s death so many times, he had to know what to do, had to take care of Simmons and make sure that the fragile nerd didn’t do anything stupid.

It hurt, not being able to look over his shoulder and see what Simons was doing. That was how things had worked for years, always right against each other, working together, complaining, shit-talking. Now he was alone, and he had his own troubles to solve.

He stared at the door, suddenly wondering if it would open if he tried. The food had been a warm welcome so far, maybe he was luckier than he’d dared to imagine.

Grif almost fell forward in shock when the door actually slid aside for him. He stumbled into the hallway, leaning against the wall. He wasn’t sure if it was after-effects of the drug or just the sheer confusion that had his legs wobbling.

He felt- well, fine was a big word. He was _alright_. He was sore, but he’d tried that too many times before. His back felt stiff, a throbbing pain between his shoulder blades and he attempted some shoulder rolls in order to get his entire body to feel alive and ready.

Who knew if he had to fight? He sure hoped that wasn’t the case – he would be screwed if he had to defend himself. He wasn’t wearing his armor – just some strange, soft, white shirt and pants – and he hadn’t seen his weapons since his capture.

“ _-sleep for how many days, do you think? If he’s anything like Biff, I’m putting my money on a week._ ”

“Simmons?” Grif whispered, recognizing the voice. It came from the other side of the hallway door, muffled by the metal wall. But knew it too well, there was no way he could mistaken.

He rushed forward, stumbling over his own legs, and as the door opened he practically fell into the arms of the soldier. “Simmons,” he said again, fingers reaching up to grasp the back of his neck, pressing him closer.

They’d saved him. He shouldn’t have doubted them, of course – they were idiots, but they had some pretty good records of saving team members before. He’d just thought, well, he had literally been taken of the planet so he had all the reasons not to have high hopes.

But they’d come for him. He grinned into the shoulder of Simmons, never caring how small he felt without the armor. He pressed his face into the armor plates, sighing heavily, feeling safe for the first time in weeks. He knew how humiliating this would be if anyone saw him  _hugging Simmons_ \- he was sure Simmons' cheeks were burning in shame, but he could always explain the action by saying it was just the drug making him emotional. Or crazy. Something like that.

Of course Simmons was the one who knew him well enough to have a cheese burger ready for when he woke up.

“Uhm… Temple? A little help here. He’s awake!”

“Who’s Temple?” Grif asked him, taking a step backwards but keeping one hand on Simmons’ wrist. With his free hand he reached upwards, trying to pull off his helmet. He wanted to see his face, it’d been so long since the last time they’d been together, and he’d been so sure that was the last time he’d seen him before he died.

“Me!” a cheerful voice exclaimed, causing Grif to back away from Simmons to look past him where the door slid open again. This stranger wasn’t wearing armor, just a set of white pants and a cobalt shirt.

His smile was as stainless as his clothes, his dark hair pulled behind his ears. Grif suddenly wondered if he was a doctor; he seemed almost sterile in a strange kind of way, white gloves covering his hands. But his expression broke the happy façade; despite the smile, Grif recognized the bags under his eyes, the tired wrinkles from age and hard work.

Perhaps a few years older than him, he supposed. Then he noticed a thin scar near the stranger’s chin, and his mind went _soldier_. He wished that wasn’t his first response, but it’d been too long since he’d been surrounded by civilians.

But he wasn’t armed, as far as Grif could see, and he wasn’t wearing armor. He guessed it was meant to calm him, but to be fair it had just become such a rare sight that it was unnerving.

“I’m Temple,” the man said, holding out a hand.

Grif just stared at it.

“Well, this is awkward,” Temple eventually had to stay, retracting his hand. He shifted the weight on his feet, still sending him a smile.

“Are we on Chorus?” Grif asked him, then turning his head to stare at Simmons. “Where are the others?”

“I, uh, supposed we have some things to explain. So sorry to disappoint, but I really should introduce you to Gene.”

He gestured towards the maroon soldier who finally took off his helmet, revealing a face with no metal, no cyborg eye, no freckles.

Grif felt as if he had been punched in the stomach.

While he was still winded, Temple carefully grabbed his arm, leading him away from Not-Simmons who was glaring at Grif with narrowed, cold eyes.

As Grif stumbled down the hallway, he suddenly became aware of the low hum beneath his feet, the familiar growls of an engine. “We are on a ship,” he said, unaware that he was speaking his thoughts out loud.

“We sure are! And we are all safe and sound.” Temple gave his arm another squeeze. “You did find the meal we’d prepared for you, right?”

“Yeah,” he said, avoiding the word ‘thanks’ just yet.

“Good. But do let me know if you need anything.” He practically pulled Grif into a secluded room, the several monitors making Grif guess that it was an office. He was put into a char, Temple taking seat across from him. “So, I suppose you have questions. And I have the answers. So I guess our little talk is needed.”

“We’re in space,” Grif said. It wasn’t a question. It was a horrible statement, and it meant he wasn’t rescued. Not quite.

“Yes.”

“That’s not Simmons.”

“As I said, his name is Gene. I get why he must be a bit if a disappointment. He disappointment me, too, most days.” He let out a small laughter, waiting for Grif to join, and then fell quiet as he understood the other man was just staring at him.

“Are you working with Felix?”

“Not _exactly_.” When he saw Grif flinching in his seat, Temple quickly held up his hands. “Don’t misunderstand me! I’m not helping him! I _bought_ you from him. _Rescued_ you. That’s probably a better word, isn’t it?”

It was probably supposed to make Grif calm down, but his heart continued to race, every beat leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. “So Felix’s not here? Or Locus?”

“Nope! No need to worry; they won’t get to hurt you again.”

That was more creepy than reassuring. “And you said you ‘bought’ me? They didn’t exactly mention an auction,” he added with a huff. It wasn’t like he thought the mercenaries above slave dealers, but he’d figured Felix would have rubbed it in his face if that had been the case.

“Well, our roads collided and I heard about you and- well, when they were interested in something I could offer, I couldn’t see any reason _not_ to get you out of that miserable cell.”

“But that’s a lie,” Grif said before he could stop himself. The growing sense of _wrong wrong wrong danger alert_ was making him jumpy as well as angry, and he had just barely enough self-respect to not let people lie directly to his face.

Felix had lied enough as it was.

He shook his head, trying to get a hold of his dazed thoughts. “They attacked me so they could give me to you. That’s not fucking impulse buying – that’s ordering online and getting it shipped to your home address.”

The glistening smile finally faltered. “Okay. Fair. That’s true. I might have pulled some strings and asked for you directly, but that doesn’t really make this rescue any less glorious, does it? You’re safe, and they don’t get to put their hands on you again. _And_ I did tell them not to harm you, and I had to really fight for that detail to be a part of the deal. So like, you’re welcome for that.”

“So what was my price tag?”

“You are being really rude right now, just for your information.”

“Yeah, fine, _thanks_ for buying me. Can I get to go home now?”

“Weeeell.” As Temple dragged out the word, he folded his hands. The smile had faded away completely now. “That would be a bad idea. Chorus is about to get hurt by a catastrophe pretty soon, and I really went out of my ways to keep you safe. Going back kinda ruins that whole idea.”

He might as well have been struck with a taser. Grif barely kept his body from jolting in shock, trying to keep up a straight face.

If Chorus was in trouble, that meant Simmons and the others were in danger. Of course he already knew this from Felix’s taunting, but this made it sound more urgent, more close than Grif preferred.

And he was just stuck in space with this psychopath.

“Right,” he said, scooting back in his chair. “Well, it’s my choice to make, so thanks for the burger. Now let me fuck off.”

“Grif- _Dexter_ -“

The sound of his first name had him jump from his seat. Unconsciously, he reached for the pistol that was no longer strapped to his thigh. “Yeah, you just entered the creepy-nope-not-doing-that stage, so I’m gonna keep my distant.”

Temple shook his head, a soft laughter escaping his lips. “It feels weird, right? To be called your name. The UNSC took that from us as well. Our _names_. It shouldn’t feel wrong. But no one has called me Mark since… Well, I guess this is a new beginning for both of us. I’m Mark.”

“No, you’re a creep.” Grif’s eyes began to drift towards the door, wondering if he could make a run for it. He doubted it; even without the influence of a drug, his legs had always been weak. But it seemed like a better plan than staying here to experience whatever this crazy person had in store for him.

“I think you are misunderstanding me,” Temple insisted. He remained in his seat, now forced to look up at him. “I saved you. You were meant to die, but I stepped in before that could happen.”

“So just what did you imagine would happen now?”

With a heavy sight, Temple finally stood up, taking one step towards Grif. “Luck would have it that my team actually is in lack of one orange soldier! And then there’s you – an orange soldier! A match made in Heaven, am I right?”

“ _Your_ team.”

“You’ve met Gene already. But we also have Loco, Surge, Buckey, Cronut and Lorenzo. They are all very excited to meet you.”

“I’m sure I’ll disappoint,” Grif said dryly. Shifting the weight on his feet, he made sure to inch closer to the wall. From the corner of his eye, he saw Temple slip a hand in his pocket. Grif couldn’t afford to be put at gunpoint.

“Ah, don’t be too hard on yourse-“

Temple was cut off when Grif rammed into him, using his full weight, just like Carolina had taught him. His elbow made contact with the man’s ribcage, and he heard a pained gasp leave Temple’s lips.

Remembering the training – too many drills, but maybe they could finally save his ass now – Grif smashed his fist against Temple’s face, hearing a satisfying crack from the nose before feeling the warm blood between his fingers.

He’d hoped that it would be enough to knock he man out – he was sure that he saw his eyelids fluttering close.

Grif had pulled back slightly, ready to dart towards the door in the hopes that it was unlocked.

And then the world stopped existing.

It became a white flash, painful, deafening.

He couldn’t breathe, his chest refused to move. As if his joints had grown rusty, they were locked in place, frozen and unmoving. Just a constant shuddering, like Simmons’ arm when it glitched; writhing on the floor, vibrating, as if trying to reach for its owner in its death throes.

The ceiling shook with Grif, and he blinked, trying to keep his vision from blurring. Short, panicked gasps were filling his ears – his own breathing, he realized.

“Fucking _fuck_ , I fucking- Why did you make me do that?!”

Temple’s pale and bloodied face hovered above him, a taser in his hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Temple is a weak pathetic shit who only survives by playing dirty and through strangely detailed plans.
> 
> My updates for this month might be a bit slow, as I'm competing in another writing competition, so my focus is elsewhere. Cross your fingers for me, guys!


	6. Clean

Grif woke up in a bathtub. He almost choked on the water before he got his bearings, and by then he’d already spun around, slamming his limbs against the porcelain.

Water splashed in the process and someone let out a high shriek.

It sounded like Donut, but then the previous events came crashing down on Grif and he understood it wouldn’t be a teammate.

“Sorry!” the stranger told him, slowly inching closer to the bathtub. “This isn’t waterboarding or anything!”

“Fuck off!” Grif yelled, twisting again as he realized he was naked and had indeed hit a new low in what was probably the worst week of his life.

“It’s just that you wet yourself,” the soldier in the pink armor explained. “When the taser hit you.”

_That_ was the new low. Grif closed his eyes, biting his lip until he tasted blood to ground himself.

“And I thought that a nice warm bath would do wonders and-“

The person screamed when Grif’s arm broke the surface to grab the bar of soap, throwing it after him with as much force as he could muster. It didn’t hit, and in the process, he slammed his knee against the side of the tub and tumbled over until his face hit the water.

He sputtered, coughing as he tried to find proper ground beneath his palms. At least the pink soldier had left the room, leaving Grif to himself as he steadied his breathing.

The porcelain was too slick, and he suddenly found himself taking another tumble. His limbs felt too stiff, too sore, as if Sarge had forced him to run laps for twenty-four hours yesterday. It took too long before his head broke the surface again, but this time he managed to grab onto the edge of the tub.

For a brief second he appreciated just how nice the warm water was against his sore muscles  - then he pulled himself up until he fell and slammed against the cold floor. The change was immediate, and goosebumps appeared almost instantly when the chill air touched his wet skin.

“Fuck,” he said, and his eyes darted around in attempt to find any clothes to wear.

This was the second time he’d been forced to strip in a too brief period, and it was getting on his nerves. In the past, in what seemed like so long ago, he’d had no trouble walking around naked – in his room, at least. He wasn’t like Donut who had no boundaries at all.

But it’d be fun to teach Simmons with his lack of shyness, and Simmons’ cheeks had turned red every time and in the beginning he’d practically been facing the wall to shield his eyes while yelling for Grif to have some courtesy. But later Grif hadn’t missed the stolen glances in his direction. They’d been repaid, of course.

But now he’d been reduced to a literal piece of meat for sale that had been bought and delivered, and the only confidence he would show them was a fist in their face.

He couldn’t help but let out a sight of relief when he spotted the bunch of fabric in the corner. It was the strange white outfit from before, all soft and clean and stiff from ironing. But it was better than the alternative, and both the shirt and the pants fit him too well. It was as if they were made for him and that thought sent a chill down his back.

It took too long to get dressed. His fingers kept shaking, and he wondered how long electricity could remain in a body. Every part of him felt numb and painful at the same time, but at a distance, like his body no longer belonged to him.

It was a pleasant surprise that no one had entered the room during his struggles. Counting on the fact that he wouldn't be disturbed just yet, Grif took the time to finally raise his head and look into the mirror.

He had to blink twice before recognizing himself. The wet black hair clung to the sides of his face, and he pushed it aside to get a better view of the damage. His skin was paler than usually, almost matching the parts that had belonged to Simmons. The right part of his face just had a sickly grey tint that had Grif fear if he was dying or something.

He’d lost weight, too. Not much but enough for him to notice it. This shit had been going on for, what, almost two weeks now, and it was already turning into someone he didn’t want to be.

The bags under his eyes didn’t help on the sight either. “I look like shit,” he muttered, placing a shaking finger against his cheek.

And apparently Temple had _paid_ for him. The guy must have low standards.

This was the part where he should come up with a plan, but his brain felt like a broken tv filled with static. He couldn’t grasp it all; he was too tired. But the parts that stood out were important; he was in space, far away from help. He couldn’t just _run_.

And he was surrounded by maniacs.

That left little to do about an escape plan, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t make life hell for his captors. And maybe, if he could somehow find his way to the control room, he could send an SOS or something.

But right now, all he could think of was revenge on the pink guy that had dropped him in the bathtub.

He stumbled twice as he searched through the room for any kind of weapon. The water on the tiled floor didn’t make it easier for his shaking legs, but finally, he reached the metal cabinet in the corner. He had to shove down several bottles and creams that looked like they all belonged to Donut, but finally, in one of the drawers, he found a scissor that could do the job.

It wasn’t as good as a dagger but it was sharp and pointy and he couldn’t wait to shove it into Pinky’s side.

He half-expected the door to be unlocked. That’d been the case with his bedroom, but, of course, that’d been before he punched Temple in the face.

He slammed against the door twice when it didn’t open. After he’d kicked it, a shrill voice called out, “Are you going to throw something at me again?”

“Let me out.”

“Is that a yes or a no?”

“Just let me the fuck out!”

He kept the scissor behind his back as he waited for the door to slide open.

When it did, he was met with three guns pointed at his face.

* * *

“I told ya he was a troublemaker,” Not-Sarge said after tearing the scissor out of Grif’s grip. Grif hated him by pure instinct; the Red Armor already told him what to expect from the person.

“ _Why_ did you think it was a good idea to leave a scissor with him?” Not-Simmons said, the question directed towards the pink soldier who was the only one not holding onto Grif’s arms at the moment.

“I was going to give him a haircut! But he didn’t seem to be in the mood for it.”

“No shit, idiot.”

Grif wasn’t sure why they all had doppelgangers all of the sudden, but he didn’t like it one bit. It felt as if the universe was trying to rub it in the face that he’d been taken away from his friends.

“Temple wanted to talk with you,” Not-Simmons told Grif, “but Buckey is still trying to make his nose look right. So you’re going to have to stay in here until he is done.”

Grif didn’t recognize the hallway. They all looked the same, but when the door slid open, he recognized it as the room he’d woken up in.

However, the hands didn’t let go of his shoulders.

“Temple didn’t want you to wear these, but they look great to your complexion _and_ Temple said we had to make sure you don’t get yourself hurt.”

Grif’s stomach dropped again when he saw the handcuff dangling from the pink soldier’s fingers. They were pink and fluffy and Grif hated them already.

Was this whole thing about stripping him for his dignity? Because in that case it was working.

But he couldn’t let them know.

So he kept his expression unchanging when they tightened the cuffs around his wrists.

“They suit you,” Not-Sarge told him before closing the door in Grif’s face.

* * *

 Tucker didn’t understand Red Team. Mainly because they were Red and so they were destined to be weird. That was how Red Team worked.

Now after Grif’s death, they just seemed even more strange. In the sad way.

Donut was still talking way too much, but now it just seemed as if he was trying to fill the silence more than anything. But his innuendos were weak, and he kept crying. All the time. Yesterday, he’d begun to cry in the middle of the mess hall because the food reminded him of Grif.

It wasn’t like Tucker didn’t get it. Donut was just loud about it, like he’d always been.

Sarge’s gone more quiet though. And Tucker found the whole idea of Sarge leading Orange Team pretty creepy. Seeing Sarge with two bickering soldiers in front of him was weird in the worst way, and Tucker was pretty sure that it was a bad coping method.

Simmons was the one having the worst time, of course. Tucker hadn’t seen him much. In the beginning he’d been holed up in the bedroom but after cleaning out Grif’s stuff, he spent most of his day just walking around. Wash had said he’d been in the training area to run laps a couple of time, but that he’d barely even acknowledged him when entering the room.

If Simmons was holding a grudge against the Freelancers, that was a problem that involved all of them.

It wasn’t _fair_. Any of this. Grif’s death. It wasn’t fair that he’d been captured while Tucker’s team had gone unscathed. But it wasn’t fair either that Simmons blamed them for it.

None of them knew what would happen. They had no way of knowing.

Even now, Tucker still had many unanswered questions.

Wash didn’t tell him much.

“Hey, Grif was my friend too,” Tucker reminded him and earned a sharp glance from the Freelancer.

“It’s not-“ Wash said before cutting himself off, running a hand down his face. “Because he was your friend, you don’t need the details.”

“Was it that bad?” Tucker asked, and the silence was enough of an answer. “I can take it-“

“Felix gave him a painful death,” Wash said testily. “That’s enough for us to know who to put to justice.”

Somehow, the lack of details made it even worse. It left Tucker’s imagination to fill the holes.

Church wasn’t much help either.

“Look, what that fucker said is absolutely horrible if true.” The AI paused, shifting the weight on his feet despite floating in the air. “Unfortunately, we know Felix is a psycho. So yeah, I wish that it wasn’t, but it’s probably true.”

“Fuck,” Tucker said.

“Yeah,” Church said. “So that’s why you gotta convince Simmons to see Grey. I don’t need a Red snapping in the middle of a mission, and trust me, Simmons is going to snap.”

Tucker hadn’t seen Simmons in a while. At first he blamed this on Simmons, but later he realized he might have been avoiding the Red. Not to be mean or anything, but because he didn’t know what to say.

What _could_ you say in this situation? Sorry your best friend slash secret boyfriend got tortured to death, I hope you are doing better.

The one time where he actually had the chance to catch Simmons and force some words out of him, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Simmons had been avoiding everyone and everything by marching around Armonia restlessly, but the one place where he came to a halt was in front of Grif’s memorial.

Tucker watched the maroon soldier bow over the flowers and something in his stomach twisted.

Yeah, this wasn’t the time to talk with Simmons.

The time to talk with Simmons happened later that night, but it wasn’t something that Tucker had planned.

It was the end of a long stressful day that hadn’t been improved by Caboose’s constant rant about building new bodies for your best friend and Wash making them run extra laps as preparation for the beatdown they were going to give Felix one day.

So Tucker stepped into his room, ready to collapse onto his bed. And that was when he noticed he wasn’t alone.

“Simmons?” he asked, blinking twice to be sure he wasn’t seeing things. “What the fuck are you doing?”

The otherwise maroon soldier was out of armor, wearing a stained t-shirt, and he was crouched by Tucker’s bed, puling out the box that contained his secret stash of alcohol. Kimball would flip if she knew.

“You’re the only one with alcohol,” Simmons said dully and then, without even hesitating, opened the first bottle in front of Tucker’s face.

Okay, it seemed like he couldn’t go to bed just yet.

“You could have asked,” Tucker mumbled as he sat down heavily on the floor next to Simmons.

The Red just shot him a dull glare while taking a long sip from the bottle.

“So,” Tucker said and popped the cap off another bottle against the bed frame, “do you wanna talk about it?”

“No,” Simmons said.

* * *

An hour later, he was weeping in the middle of Tucker’s bedroom.

“Grif’s dead,” he suddenly whispered and then the waterworks began.

“Oh shit,” Tucker said, suddenly missing the awkward silence that had lasted until now while they drank.

“FUCK,” Simmons then said, voice raised into a yell. He put the bottle on the ground with so much force that Tucker feared it might break. “That FUCKING son of a BITCH- Why the FUCK, you useless, lazy, dumbass-“

He was swinging the bottle now, liquid splashing all over the floor, and Tucker had to reach out to grab his arm. “Okay, that’s enough booze.”

“He’s fucking gone, Tucker,” Simmons snapped at him. “And we can’t just bring him back! He’s gone, and fuck, we fucked up and he is not coming back, and _what the fuck_. I can’t- He can’t just leave! That fuck- I can’t just be Simmons, I _can’t_.”

“Dude,” Tucker said, watching the Red practically collapse in front of him. “I don’t think Grif would want you to be anyone else.”

“I can’t, Tucker,” Simmons whispered, letting go of the bottle to cover his face instead. “I just fucking can’t, and the fucker knew that, and he is still gone. It’s not _fair_.”

“Life sucks,” Tucker said, meaning every word. Life was cruel and especially to the people of Chorus. “I’m sorry.”

Simmons shook his head. “Damn it all to hell.”

“I know. Shit, I- I get it.”

Simmons fell quiet after that, shoulders shaking slightly as he cried. Tucker knew better to embrace him, and instead began to clean up the room, making sure to push the stash as far back as possible in case Simmons tried to reach for it again.

He sat on the bed, waiting for another move from Simmons. He just hoped the Red wouldn’t be blaming him tomorrow when he suffered from a hangover.

He should probably ask him if he wanted to spend the night here. He doubted Simmons wanted to go back to his bedroom that would only remind him of Grif’s absence.

“Do you-“

“I fucked up,” Simmons suddenly whispered, sounding downright horrified. “I fucked up. I didn’t mean to. He- I’m sorry.”

“What are you talking about?” Tucker asked him, furrowing his brows in worry.

He took one step closer when Simmons suddenly jumped from the floor, slapping his palm against his mouth. “I-“ he choked, eyes darting around in panic. “I have to go,” he said before stumbling out of the room.

Tucker just hoped he ran because he had to throw up; he really couldn’t deal with other kinds of problems right now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I've been on a roll lately with updates. Hope you all enjoyed. I fucked up and have accidentally planned a new WIP. If you love the angst in this one, you're gonna love my upcoming fic.
> 
> Thanks for reading <3


	7. Coping

With nothing better to do, Grif crawled into bed and fell asleep. He kept his cuffed hands against his chest, ignoring how the pink fur tickled his skin.

Facing the wall, he didn’t bother to turn around when he finally heard the door slide open.

His fingers twitched when he recognized the voice.

“Sorry to disturb your nap,” Temple said.

Grif waited for the mattress to move as weight was added, but he was pleasantly surprised when Temple did not come closer. A heavy sigh was heard before Temple spoke again, “Can you at least talk to my face? You owe me that much, you know, for your tantrum.”

With a groan, Grif rolled over. It was quite the struggle without the use of his hands. “How’s the nose, asshole?” he asked, happy to let the smirk hide his exhaustion.

The sight was worth the effort of sitting up. The plaster on Temple’s face was almost as white as his skin that had now gained some colorful bruises around the swollen nose. Some dried blood was still sticking to his upper lip. “It hurts,” he said stiffly. “But it’s mainly my pride.”

“What do you want?”

“I can’t have you scowling in here forever,” Temple answered as he leaned against the wall. “So I just wanted to clear things up. I get that it’ll take a while to feel like home, but trying to stab people with scissors is just rude.”

“Look,” Grif said. “You’re obviously insane. And I don’t plan to stick around. You obviously don’t agree with that, well shit, but if you call Chorus we can work something out. I’m a shitty hostage, but Simmons gets stupid when he’s desperate. They’ll work something out. You want money? Guns? Something? C’mon, throw me a bone here. Because, trust me, you do not want to get stuck with me.”

“But I do.” The sympathetic look in Temple’s eyes almost made Grif gag. “You haven’t been treated right if you think that. It’s not a surprise – trust me, I know that better than anybody. Orange soldiers like you- You’re waste. No one appreciates you and you always die, and _nobody cares_. But I do. I really, really do.”

“I think I would prefer it if you cared a little less,” Grif said dryly.

That just earned him another smile, and the urge to punch Temple in the face again continued to grow stronger and stronger for every passing second.

“You don’t trust me. That’s fair. You don’t know me. But I know you.”

“Your stalker vibes are showing again,” Grif muttered and hoped his goosebumps weren’t visible. It didn’t even surprise him that Temple had done his research; Grif’s first impression of him so far had screamed creep!

Temple gestured towards the bare walls and locked doors. “I know this isn’t exactly Hawaii-“

Pain flared up in Grif’s back as he sat up straight, every muscle tense.

“-but we’ll try our best to make this place more… comfy. But I need your help for that, too. When you act out of line, we have to take our precautions, and, well…” He nodded towards the handcuffs, lips curling upwards at the sight of the fur. “I’m sure you don’t want further… Let’s call them restrictions. For your own safety!”

“You’re asking me to stop punching you?”

Temple’s happiness at the question was unnerving. His smile widened. “Yes! And it’s easy, too! And once you start behaving we can eat dinner together and I can show you-“

He doubled over as Grif’s foot connected with his kneecap.

Now it was Grif’s turn to smile innocently. “Does kicking count?”

Temple’s clenched his shaking fists, and for a moment Grif was sure he was going to lash out. But instead the cobalt soldier let his shoulders fall, curling in on himself as his mouth turned into a thin line. “You’re so-“ He inhaled sharply. “What do you want me to do?!” he yelled.

“Letting me go would be a start,” Grif grumbled. He unconsciously attempted to cross his arms, only to be bitterly reminded of the handcuffs as pressure was added around his wrists.

“You’ll die!” Temple shrieked back at him. “I don’t want that and you don’t want that either! I _know_ that. And you know it too. ‘A self-proclaimed coward and egoist’ – that’s what your files say!”

“Why do you have my files?” Grif said, but most of all he wondered just why that quote existed in the files anyway. He didn’t disagree with it, even if he couldn’t remember saying the statement out loud. He just wasn’t sure why Project Freelancer had cared.

“Because,” Temple said, “I tried to prepare for you arrival! To make the transition easier for you. I made some calls. Then went on a little adventure on my own. But in the end, you should blame UNSC's shitty safety measures. They really didn’t care about security in their abandoned bases. You can get your hands on some valuable stuff those places. But that wasn’t how I found you, actually.”

“How did you find me?” Grif said, fearing the answer.

Temple continued to smile as he pulled a datapad from behind his back. When he turned on the screen, it showed the old article.

Grif had read it before; he recognized the title.

“ _Colorful Space Marines Stop Corruption_ ,” he read slowly.

“You tried to inch your way out of the picture but I saw you! An orange soldier. Alive. For now. I had to step in, I had to save you. And I did.” Temple hesitated for a long moment before sitting down on the bed, keeping a fair distance between himself and Grif. “I’m not unsympathetic to your pain. I lost people, too! Important people. And you- You lost your sister, your friends-“

“If you don’t shut up right now you’re going to get punched again,” Grif growled. If the bastard knew about Kai, Grif had been outmaneuvered in a whole new way. “What are you going to do then, huh?!”

“We have safety measures,” Temple answered briefly. “You probably won’t like them. I don’t _want_ to use them but I guess that’s up to you.”

“So let me get this right,” Grif said. “You’re not here to torture me. Or keep me as a hostage. You just want me here. Despite not knowing me. And despite not me wanting to be here. And despite me making sure to make your life absolute hell-“

Temple reached forward to place a hand on his shoulder. “Call me stupid-“

“That’s exactly what I’m doing.”

“-but I know I’m doing the right thing,” he continued. “Believe it or not, you don’t deserve to die.”

Grif wasn’t sure what he deserved – except for the fact that he didn’t deserve _this_. Getting captured by the mercs seemed more fair, considering the fact they were at war and all that. Temple came out of nowhere, and despite the lack of torture, Grif didn’t feel grateful for him just yet.

“If you want to be a big savior, why the fuck don’t you ‘rescue’ – I’m doing quote marks, by the way, which is hard with cuffed hands, asshole – the others, too?”

“Because they don’t deserve it.” The answer was brief and cold, with no hesitation from Temple. He’d left the bed now, moving towards the door before turning to Grif. “So – do you want me to show you around or do you want to play prisoner?”

Rolling his eyes, Grif made sure that his gasp sounded as fake as possible. “You mean, the choice is whether or not I want to be around your ungodly amount of creepiness? ‘cause, yeah, in that case I prefer alone time with my bed. Get out.”

It would have given him more satisfaction if Temple had a shorter temper. Instead he had to settle with the captor setting his jaw. After a sharp exhale, Temple spat, “ _Fine_. But don’t come fucking complaining to me later.”

“I’ll send an email then,” Grif sneered at the locked door.

As the room fell silent again, he pushed himself further back against the corner. At least the bed was soft, he reminded himself. With nothing left to do but wait, he had to focus on the positive stuff. Things could be worse…

Still, he preferred his cot back on Chorus. It’d been warmer.

His eyes drifted to the other side of the room and when he squeezed them shut, he could almost imagine Simmons resting there, turning over restlessly, his cyborg parts humming quietly.

“Don’t get yourself killed, nerd,” he muttered into the pillow as he rolled over to face the wall instead. “I need you to bust me out.” 

* * *

“For the last time,” Simmons snarled under his breath, “I’m not going to therapy.”

It didn’t matter that he was currently facing the Agent Carolina. He was pretty sure he’d lost his common sense a while ago.

“Actually,” Church said, appearing in a flash, “we were asking you to get Sarge to go to therapy. But, yeah, you should probably join him, too.”

“What’s wrong with Sarge?” Simmons asked, frowning. He hadn’t seen the Red Team leader in a while, mainly because he hadn’t really talked with anyone else since the disaster in Tucker’s quarters.

“Besides the usual murderous tendency and manic rambling?” Church snorted. Carolina cleared her throat, a bit too sharply, and the hologram turned his head away. When he spoke again, his voice had become considerably more grave, “But, yeah, he keeps calling Bitters and Matthews for you and Grif. It’s getting creepy.”

“It’s fine,” Simmons’ mouth said for him. “He’s fine. They’re, you know, similar. It’s normal. To get confused. Because Bitters is much like… He’s lazy. And doesn’t care. And he’s kinda fat. It’s normal. To make mistakes like that.”

“Yeah, and I’m sure that Matthews’s a big nerd too,” Church snapped. “But Sarge is still freaking people out.”

“We don’t know how Sarge usually… cope,” Carolina tried, obviously searching for the right word, unsure if she succeeded.

“Considering you are Reds you probably don’t usually cope. At all,” the AI added.

“But he’s still doing what he’s supposed to do, right?” Simmons said. “He’s training them.” Even now, he was still grateful Kimball hadn’t asked him for the job. Just staring at Bitters for too long made his stomach churn.

He was the final friendly face Grif had seen before…

Simmons swallowed slowly.

“No one expects you to be fine after this,” Carolina told him. “We are-“

“I’ll talk with Sarge,” Simmons said. “But I need to talk with Agent Washington first.”

“Wash?” He could imagine the way Carolina’s brow shot up in surprise behind her visor. “Why do you need him?”

Simmons shrugged but he couldn’t escape the nervous laughter from escaping his lips. “I just have a question.” 

* * *

“How do you do knives?”

Wash froze, looking over his shoulder in surprise. “What?”

“Knives,” Simmons said. “How do you do them?”

“Simmons, I really want to help you, I do, but I’m not sure what you are asking about.”

Suppressing a groan of annoyance, Simmons let out a sigh instead. This conversation had gone easier in his head. “You are the one who’s best with knives,” he said. “I want to learn.”

“Oh.” The tone in Wash’s voice was more shocked than disapproving. “I- sure. That’s a- that’s an idea. I’m a bit busy right now – there’s an equipment error spreading around the troops, their HUD starts glitching in the field. Maybe we can talk later? It also gives you some time to think this through-“

“Why should I need that?”

Wash did a double-take. “Well, I just never pictured you as a close combat fighter,” he said. “It’s not- This hasn’t been your style before, right?”

He shook his head.

“So why the change?”

“I don’t know,” Simmons lied.

“You know,” Wash began and then cut himself off. He shook his head twice. “Is this for facing Felix?”

“I, uhm. No. Of course not. I mean, he’s Felix and he…” The words lay ready on his tongue – Felix killed, tortured, took everything from him – but they all died before they were uttered and they left a bad taste behind in his mouth. “I just thought, it’d be a good idea, in case, you know, I need a knife.”

Wash paused, looking away towards the young soldiers running laps in the distance. “Simmons.”

“Please.”

That was one good thing since the incident. People seemed to give in when he appeared pathetic enough. And, apparently, being pathetic was one of the few things he was good at.

The Freelancer rubbed the back of his neck. “Alright. Meet me here at zero seven-hundred tomorrow.” 

* * *

“Hey, Sarge? You’re doing okay and coping in your own manner and probably not losing your mind, right?” Simmons said in one breath as he rushed past the Red soldier. “Great! I’ll talk to you later! Bye!”

* * *

 

Sometimes Simmons dreamt about Grif. He would be standing in the distance, orange armor glistening in the sun. Sometimes he would be holding a snack, a donut or a soda. Other times he would be using his hand to wave at Simmons.

And he’d always say something stupid, like:

“Simmons, wanna drive the Warthog with me? We can crash and stay in the shade for two hours again.”

And Simmons would want to say yes, he would love to do that, and they could look at the sky and point at clouds like Grif loved to do, and they could waste their time like that, and they wouldn’t care about it because time didn’t matter when they were together.

But:

“You’re dead,” Simmons reminded him.

The orange helmet would turn towards him then, and Grif, stupid as he was, would let out a surprised: “Oh.”

As if he’d forgotten.

As if it didn’t matter.

But then, because Simmons would remind them both of reality, Grif’s body caught up with him.

“Felix killed you,” Simmons would say. He’d cry while doing so. “He cut you up. He said so. He tortured you. And you bled to death.”

Blood would seep through the cracks of his armor, through the shattered helmet that was staring at Simmons.

The blood would keep coming. It didn’t end, even as Grif’s body collapsed and the red color reached Simmons’ boots-

Simmons would wake up then, with his mechanic heart stuttering as he pressed his fists against his wet face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise, action will come soon.


	8. Grief

The four walls provided a safe space. Grif had to admit that. But as time passed, they seemed to come closer. The grey color of the metal became alienating. There’d always been red or blue colors around him, or at least since he’d joined the army.

There would always be something red in his home, something orange, to remind him of who he was.

The white clothes given to him were soft and they fit him, but at the same time they made him long for the tin can suit of an armor that he’d worn and hated for years.

He slept for a while, woke up and squinted in displeasure when none of his surroundings had changed. There wasn’t much else to do but curl together and close his eyes, and his only way of telling time was the loudness of the growls in his stomach and the growing pressure on his bladder.

When the pressure turned into a burning pain, he finally sat up to kick the door.

“Hey, assholes?” he called out as his heel connected with the metal. “I need the toilet.”

There was no immediate response. No reply, no sound of footsteps.

Grif sighed and looked around. This place didn’t even have a pot plant. Or a sink. And he was still wearing the stupid handcuffs.

When the door slid open, it was the Tucker-clone who grabbed his arm and pulled him out. “Shit, you’re a pain in the ass,” he said as he marched him through the hallways.

They all looked alike, and Grif was yet to find his bearings when he was shoved into a tiled room, the toilet right in front of him.

Grif paused, faced with the fact that the everyday task would be a bit harder with bound hands. The moment of hesitation proved too long as his trousers were suddenly pulled down from behind with a swift motion.

“You fuck,” Grif spat and stumbled inside to gain what privacy he could get. Though it was a hassle, he made sure to complete the rest of the process himself, even if it earned him some red skin where the cuffs began to bite.

Buckey was waiting for him as he’d finished his business. He gestured his pistol in the direction that he wanted Grif to walk in.

“Where’s Temple?” Grif asked.

“Somewhere.”

“Just tell him I wanna talk with him.”

“Dude, you don’t give the orders here.” As they reached Grif’s room, he let out a thoughtful huff. “Are you gonna kick him in the face again?”

Grif spun around so he could see how he rolled his eyes. “I punched his face,” he corrected him with a snort. “And kicked his knee. I can recommend it.”

Not even a second had passed before Buckey’s boot connected with his kneecap.

Grif dropped to the ground with a sharp gasp. “ _Fuckingfuck_ -“

Buckey shrugged. “Oh yeah, that did feel good.”

* * *

His leg was still aching when Temple finally bothered to show up. “I apologize for Buckey’s behavior,” he said, coming to a halt in front of his bed. “He’s an asshole.”

“No shit,” Grif grumbled. He could feel the swelling on his knee. Bruises were not something new to him; even before the war, he’d lived as a punching bag. But even Sarge’s eyes seemed less hateful than Buckey’s actions.

The dark speckles of blood that had seeped through the fabric stole Temple’s attention. He kneeled down to take a closer look, but his fingers remained hovering in the air, reaching for the pants leg. “Do you want me to take a look at it?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“I didn’t go through all this trouble to get you here just to maim you.” Temple’s fingers were gentle as they pulled up the trousers to reveal the scarred skin underneath. His touch was cold, almost clammy. “I heard you wanted to talk.”

“I’m hungry,” Grif said, craning his neck to look away. “And this place doesn’t have any tv. And you’re not going to let me go.”

Temple’s fingers ran across the dried blood, and the pale man nodded to himself as he deemed to bruise minor. When he pulled down the pants leg, the thought suddenly occurred to Grif that he should strangle him.

He’d seen it pulled off in movies; wrapping the cuffs around a man’s throat and just pulling.

It seemed easy.

But even with Temple dead before him, it wouldn’t change to fact that he was still locked in here.

“Do you want to have the tour?” Temple asked, standing up. The broad smile had returned, splitting his face.

Grif let the handcuffs rattle as he raised his hands. “Will you take these off?”

“I’d love to!” Temple told him. “But you have to gain the others’ trust first. After all, you did leave a colorful first impression on me.” He gestured towards his bruised nose, and his good mood allowed him to keep the smile on his face during his own joke. “Did you want to come for a walk?”

Grif followed him outside and made a point out of limping. Earning some pity points might prove useful in the end. He couldn’t fight his way out of here. He was aware of that now. So he needed enough freedom to figure out another way back to the others.

“This is, as you know, your room. Don’t worry; it’s only temporary. We’re going to a place much, much better than this. I’m sure you’ll like it.”

“I doubt that.”

How strange. Hours ago, he’d only wanted to leave the small room. Now the thought of being brought somewhere else was downright terrifying.

Life had strange ways of shoving irony down his throat.

“I have the others making dinner for us,” Temple said as they walked. “There’s no reason for you to starve! This is where we sleep in case you need anything.”

The snarky remark lay at the tip of his tongue; he wouldn’t need anything from them. But he stopped himself in time, remembering that in order to roam around the ship, he had to make some sacrifices. So he stayed quiet.

“Here’s the bathrooms, the storage. The control room is up there. Lorenzo is in charge of the ship most of the time.”

That was the most interesting thing that Temple had ever said. Lorenzo must be Lopez’s doubleganger, probably Spanish, probably a robot, probably hating his life. Grif could work with that.

“In here is the kitchen. It’s not much, but we’ve survived. In here are the living quarters.”

“Where did you get the ship?”

“It’s just an old one we salvaged,” Temple said with a sly smile. “Oh look, they have enough manners to prepare the table for us.”

He gestured towards the long table awaiting them. The grey metal and white plates were a boring color scale that was broken by the soldiers waiting for them.

Their colors were so familiar it hurt.

“You’ve met most of them,” Temple said. “Cronut, Buckey, Surge, Gene.” His hand gestured towards the blue armor. “Oh, and this is Loco.”

Without their helmets, the illusion was broken. They weren’t his friends, that much was clear. They were older, wearied. Their eyes had a coldness to them that Grif could only compare to Wash’s stare when he’d been trying to kill them.

But then there was the Caboose-wannabe. Loco. He had the same stupid, lost grin. The same stupidly happy eyes surrounded by curly hair. He rushed forward, crushing Grif in a hug.

“I’ve missed the color orange,” he mumbled into Grif’s shoulder.

Doing his best to breathe through the pressure, Grif gasped. “I can’t believe there’s two of them.”

“Right?” Temple said, laughing. “I can explain that too! Somewhat. Project Freelancer turned out to be even stranger than expected.”

“You’re Sim Troopers?” He’d figured as much. The whole ‘copy and paste’ syndrome had pointed in this direction. Plus, he knew his friends hadn’t been the only assholes trapped in a gulch by Project Freelancer. He just hadn’t really given them a second thought.

“Sadly; yes. We’re what you could call a prototype even. Your team was picked to duplicate our team dynamics. It’s the reason why you were drafted. It really sucks. UNSC has committed many crimes.”

He still remembered the day he’d found the drafting notice. How he’d been at a loss for words the rest of the day, just reading it over and over until he’d decided to become drunk. He’d asked why, again and again with no answer to be granted to him. Why had it been him?

Now, years later, Temple had given him the answer, and Grif had no idea of how to react. So he kept his face blank and slowly slipped into the awaiting chair, keeping his eyes on the plate.

“I understand if you’re angry,” Temple said as the others joined him at the table. “We were too but I figured I could choose something more productive than anger. Please, eat.”

The dinner didn’t look half-bad. It wasn’t a cheeseburger, sadly, but what looked like a heated MRE and extra rice.

As the others began to dig into the pile on their plates, Grif made sure to wriggle his bound hands.

“Surge, release the poor man,” Temple said. “It’s dinner, after all.”

The man followed orders with a huff, but Grif was bitterly disappointed when he merely readjusted the cuffs, leaving one wrist tied to the armrest.

But it left him with enough movement to lift his fork, and that gave him the best way to avoid talking; to stuff his mouth instead.

He shoveled food down his throat and didn’t care about the glares in his direction. He hadn’t given a single shit when Simmons had been disturbed by his lack of manners, and he was definitely not going to care about the opinions of these people.

“You must have been hungry,” Temple finally said tactfully.

Grif glared up at him and spoke with his mouth full og rice, “Stop staring.”

“I told you, you have puppy-eyes for him,” Buckey told Temple with a grimace.

That remark only had Grif eating even faster, in the hopes that he might just choke to death. It seemed like the best way out of this situation.

The way everyone was staring at him had his skin crawling. Keeping his head low didn’t seem to work.

“At least he likes my cooking,” Cronut said.

Loco tilted his head and watched him with widened, confused eyes. “But he looks sad.”

“He’s just homesick,” Temple said and proceeded to stab his rice.

That had Loco frowning. “Oh,” he said and reached across the table to pat Grif’s arm. “We’re very close now. Lorenzo told me so.”

“That’s not my home,” Grif said.

“Moody,” Cronut stage-whispered loud enough for everyone to hear.

“Cronut, have some empathy.” Temple threw a hand in the direction of the only person in the room without armor. “Grif is mourning his friends.”

His sympathetic expression was worse than his words. “They’re not dead,” Grif spat, bits of food flying form his mouth.

Temple pursed his lips. “Yet.”

Scraping his knife across his now empty plate, Grif made sure they knew he was done eating – and talking.

But Temple met his glare without flinching. “I think we need some dessert.” While his words were directed at his teammates, he didn’t turn his eyes away from Grif.

“Yes,” Loco exclaimed joyfully.

“Not for you. Just Grif and I. Get out.”

Grif continued to scowl as the soldiers shifted in their seats before following orders, shuffling out of the room with various emotions portrayed in their expressions. Most of them annoyed, some downright angry.

They walked in silence, and it was Temple’s pained sigh that broke it. He had his fingers pressed against his nose bridge. “I’m not mad,” he began.

“Dude, I don’t give a shit if you’re disappointed. Cry me a river.”

Temple’s blue eyes reminded him of thin ice, breaking under pressure. Cold was reflected in them. “I need to tell you a story.”

“Is it a bedtime story?”

“It’s the answer to why you’re here.”

Grif froze in his seat. There was no way to tell if Temple’s delivery of the line had been intentional or not.

“I know you and Simmons are friends. The files said so. I had a close friend once. We grew up together. Did everything together. So we entered the army together. The UNSC only found us suitable as Sim Troopers. Pawns in their stupid game. And to rub it in our face, we were put on opposite teams.” He paused, as if Grif needed time to imagine how the situation had played out. “We made do. Until Agent Carolina was sent to our Gulch for a quick training mission. She killed Biff. He was in the way for her victory. She didn’t care. He was just an orange Sim Trooper.”

“You said something about dessert by the way,” Grif cut him off when Temple’s eyes had turned tad too longing. “Where’s my ice cream?”

“I’m afraid I can only offer some sweet validation,” was Temple’s quick reply. “You don’t deserve to suffer the way Biff did. Carolina would have gotten you killed in the end. I won’t let her have that.”

“I’m pretty sure I know Carolina the best.” He couldn’t prove Temple’s words wrong. Hell, he couldn’t even say that there was no way Carolina would have done that. He’d seen some of the worst sides of her, and he knew how little Sim Troopers had mattered. But the Carolina he knew now, the one who actually counted, was not the murderer that Temple described. “Sure, she’s scary. And has a temper. And a nasty fist. But she’s not a goddamn serial killer.”

“You don’t matter to her.” When there was no immediate answer, Temple let out a sharp laugh. “C’mon. Do you really think that? You’re not stupid, Dexter Grif. Do you really think she wouldn’t throw you under the bus?”

“She was a bitch once,” Grif said testily. “But she’s saved our asses, like, a lot.”

“What if Wash’s life was on the line? Don’t you think she wouldn’t sacrifice you for that? Or if the choice was between you and Tucker? You and victory? Please.”

The sheer mockery in Temple’s voice was enough to have Grif shaking in his seat. He didn’t know shit about his life. He hadn’t been there. And so what if priorities were different. They’d been stuck in a war, for fuck’s sake. Ideals had been thrown out the window a long time ago, and Grif knew better than anyone that sometimes you couldn’t save everyone.

It sucked.

Especially when you weren’t the one too useful to lose.

“How about you shit on your friends, and I shit on mine,” he suggested.

But Temple continued mercilessly. From the smug look in his eyes, he must have realized that he’d hit a sore spot. “Between you and victory, what do you think she’d choose?” he said almost calmly. “From what I hear, there was no one around to back you up when Felix and his partner found you.”

“Because they planned their ambush, dipshit.”

“Because they counted on the Freelancer’s priorities. And you aren’t one of them.” He left his chair with a dramatic hiss, and the sudden change of level had him staring down at Grif. “Believe me or not, but they’d be the death of you in the end. Since when were you the cause of drama? They just keep dragging you into bullshit you shouldn’t have to deal with. You could at least agree on that.”

Grif found himself scooting backwards in the chair, but he couldn’t escape the thin finger that pressed against his chest, right beneath the ribs. Temple paused, using enough pressure so that Grif could feel the circle his finger was trailing through the fabric.

“I had to watch Biff die right in front of me,” he whispered. “He bled to death. He didn’t… I was the reason he was signed up in the first place.”

“Hands off.” When Grif jerked violently in his chair, Temple suddenly backed away, stumbling into the table in the process. Grif hoped it hurt. “Did you tie your friend up too, or did you save all your kinks for me?”

“Fuck, you’re stubborn.” Temple continued to swear as he rubbed food scraps off his palm. “Have you ever heard of the Stockholm syndrome?” he hissed.

“Dude, trust me, I’m not the person who needs a diagnose in this room.”

It only gained him a somber smile from Temple who sighed, “Denial is a sad thing.”

* * *

 Simmons sighed as he faced his own door. Losing Grif had put things in perspective. First now he realized how right Grif had been about the holiness of a bed. Simmons wanted to stay in it all day now. It shielded him from the horrible world outside that kept asking questions and wouldn’t leave him alone.

There were responsibilities and consequences waiting for him, and Simmons wanted to hide from them all.

But that would be cowardice, and he’d been enough of a coward already.

He let the door slide open – and found himself staring directly into Caboose’s visor. The Blue was holding a cobalt helmet in his hands.

“You have Grif’s helmet,” he said. It didn’t sound like a question.

And he was right.

Simmons kept it on his dresser, after having wiped away the dried mud. It was the only thing he had left of Grif from that day. It was the only thing that had survived.

The familiar ache in the back of his throat returned. “Caboose, I-“

The Blue stepped forward, forcing his way inside the room. “Do you have it?”

“Yes. Why?”

“It’s important you have it.”

“Well, I do, and I don’t want to talk about it.”

Another step was taken, and then they were both inside Simmons’ room.

“I have Church’s helmet,” Caboose said.

“I- Why do you have that? Well, I guess he doesn’t need it any longer.”

“Yeah, I borrowed it after his death.”

“Which one? Wait, I don’t want to know.” He shook his head, suddenly remembered the dried blood he’d found on the inside of Grif’s visor. It made his stomach twist. “I don’t have time for this, Caboose, I need to meet Wash-“

“We need grief time.”

“No we-“

“We need grief time,” Caboose repeated himself.

Three minutes later, and they were sitting on the opposite beds, each with a helmet in their lap.

 “Hello, Church’s helmet, this is Grif’s helmet. It is nice to meet you.”

Simmons watched how Caboose handled the helmet like an energic baby. Grif’s helmet, on the other hand, felt like a dead weight, too heavy to carry. “Caboose, I really don’t want to do this.”

“That’s because you’re sad,” Caboose said. “And when I was sad, and I was that a lot, I would talk to Church’s helmet and tell him how much I miss him. I miss you.” There was a moment of silence after his grave tone. The helmet never replied, of course. Then the Blue looked up at Simmons. “Your turn.”

“I-“

“Tell Grif’s helmet you miss him.”

The core instincts kicked in again, and Simmons felt his mind go into obedience-mode automatically. He looked down into the visor. In it he saw his own reflection, all skewed by the orange color. His face was barely recognizable.

“I miss you,” he breathed out.

There was no way of counting how many times he’d stared into this visor. Eventually, he’d learned to tell Grif’s expression through it. He knew when Grif had been rolling his eyes or sending him a smile, even when he hadn’t been able to see it.

There’d been something behind this visor, once.

“Yeah, ah, that did not make me feel better,” Caboose said, finally breaking the heavy silence. “Try telling him how great a friend he was and how you think about him and how you’ll never find someone as great as him and, Church, oh Church, I miss you so much-“

“What the fuck is going on in here?”

The door slid open again, revealing Tucker and Church on his shoulder. Simmons held back a sigh and wondered why none of the Blues could leave him alone today.

Caboose sniffed loudly, still facing the cobalt helmet. “Sometimes, I can still hear his voice.”

“That’s because I’m right here, you idiot.”

Tucker crossed his arms and ignored the AI that was screaming right next to his head. “What are you doing?”

Caboose was the only one with a clear answer. “Simmons is telling Grif’s helmet how much he misses him.”

His explanation had Simmons throwing the orange helmet on the bed. “This is stupid,” he hissed, standing up. “You’re stupid-“

“Hey!” Tucker said. While his tone was warning, he spread out his arms in a confused gesture.

“It’s not the same,” Simmons said. “Church is not dead, Caboose.”

“The guy has a point,” the AI huffed.

“You don’t- He’s still here,” Simmons gasped, searching for both words and air. The room felt too crowded now. “You don’t have to miss him, and when you did, he came back!”

Caboose was still cradling the helmet. “But maybe Grif will-“

“He won’t,” Simmons said. He was speaking the truth, he was sure of that. The cold, horrible truth. “Grif won’t do anything because he is dead, and we don’t get to see him again.”

“Ever?” Caboose asked, voice small.

Simmons had opened his mouth, the sudden anger keeping him going, but Tucker suddenly jumped between the two of them. “Jesus Christ, can we not have this talk right now?”

“He was the one who started it!” Simmons hissed, pointing a shaking finger at Caboose. It was the Blues who’d practically invaded his room, for whatever reason.

“What are you – five?” Church snickered.

Caboose just tilted his head. “He’s sad.”

“Leave me alone.” Simmons marched towards the exit, expecting Tucker to move out of his way. When he didn’t, he tried his best not to show his grimace of pain as their shoulders connected.

“But-“

“No, Caboose!” Simmons said and left the room.

He hoped the new surroundings would make it easier to breathe, but the air felt stuffy even here. With his hand pressed tightly against his face, he walked without looking up. He could use another knife session right now. His skills were still laughable, but at least throwing blades into the ground was a protective way of dealing with aggression.

“Can you not be a dick to him for five minutes?” Tucker asked when he caught up with him. He must have left Church behind, as the AI didn’t show up the interrupt them.

“I did play along. For a bit,” Simmons said stiffly. Now when he had no empty helmets to stare at him, the guilt had already begun to settle in his stomach. Caboose was an idiot, yes, but that was nothing new. And he could recognize an attempt of help, even if it’d been horribly wrong. “It’s not my fault-“

“We miss Grif too,” Tucker said. “So how about not being an asshole when we’re what’s left?” The sentimentality of his message barely had enough time to sink in before he added, “Also, you should shave. You’re beginning to look like a cheap Irish John Wick knock-off.”

At his words, Simmons reached up to touch his growing stubble. Perhaps it’d been a while since he’d shaved. Or taken a bath.

He was beginning to turn into Grif…

That thought just hurt.

“The last concern is Donut’s, by the way,” Tucker added. “He says your face doesn’t have the shape for a beard.”

* * *

 Donut had just finished tidying up the gravestone when the Lieutenant appeared. Clutching the withered flowers in his fist, Donut tried his best to send him a smile. He recognized the poor soul, even if they hadn’t talked much.

But he’d been Grif’s lieutenant. And now he was Sarge’s.

That meant they were practically family.

“Oh hi, Bitters,” he said. “Have you come to talk to Grif, too?”

“Does it matter?” the guy asked. He clearly wasn’t in the best of mood, but who could blame him in a situation like this. “He’s dead. It’s not like he can hear us.”

“I think that’s a matter of religion. But all beliefs are welcome! And valid.”

The orange soldier shrugged at that. His visor was turned towards the gravestone, and Donut had begun to move away to give the guy some privacy. In case he needed to mourn in peace, which seemed to be the case.

But he’d just raised his boot when a quiet voice called out, “Do you think he’s, like, somewhere else? Afterlife? Watching and all that? Do you think- _believe_ he can hear us?”

“Maybe,” Donut said. Frowning wasn’t good for the skin, but the questions left him with something to think about. “I guess we’ll never know the answer. So it can’t hurt to talk to him. I just leave flowers. He’d hate that but- but I like it. I want him to have them.”

“So he’d hear it? If we apologized or whatever?”

Oh, that was just sad. Fighting the urge to just reach out and hug him, Donut settled with hand on Bitters’ shoulder instead. “Grif did forgive you for eating that candy bar.”

“…That’s good to know,” Bitters said rather stiffly. Almost aggressively. He pulled himself loose from Donut’s hand and began to walk away. “I hear ghosts hold quite the grudge.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so that episode where caboose mentioned talking to church's helmet....


	9. Vent

“I see a frown,” Temple sung as he stepped inside the room carrying a tray. “Let’s turn that upside down. I have breakfast.”

His voice made its way through the blanket Grif had pulled over his head, piercing like a dagger. He groggily sat up, and his black hair fell down to cover his shoulders. It was tangled, he knew that, and it felt heavier than usual. But he’d never cared much about it before. It’d been Simmons’ bitching that had made him pick up a brush just a few times a month.

His senses were still slowed down from his nap, and he blinked twice before focusing on the meal given to him. Standard MREs as he was used to: a dry piece of bread, butter neatly spread on top of it, and a cup of pudding next to it.

When Temple sat down heavily on the bed, Grif pulled is legs closer to himself, staying under the blanket. In his last fit of frustration last night, he’d pulled the shirt off himself, suddenly feeling too hot and cold at once. Like his body no longer wanted to belong in his skin.

But he didn’t want Temple to see him half-naked, not when his eyes already seemed greedy enough.

“Our home will be better,” Temple promised while Grif began to eat. “No one deserves to live on the run. This will be a good, steady environment for you. Familiar, too. I’ve tried to make this change of life as pleasant as possible, but you can’t find everything in your files. So please do let me know if there is something you want. Like… videogames? You like those, right? Or movies. We could watch them together-“

“Don’t get your hopes up,” Grif said with his mouth full. Then he swallowed, the bite big enough to make his throat hurt. But in order for them to get their guards down, he had to stroke his ego. And Temple, despite his obvious madness, seemed easy to flatter. He just had to give him what he wanted. “But, I mean, movies would be better than this.”

Temple’s smile made it clear that it was definitely working. “I’ve made sure to buy the softest bed for you,” he said. “It’s big, too. I- I just really want you to be happy.”

Was the man scooting closer, or was it just Grif’s imagination? No matter what, he made sure to inch himself closer to the wall, dragging the tray with him.

“Sure thing, dude.”

“You don’t believe-“ Temple stood up with a sharp inhale, and then turn his back to Grif, as if trying to hide his face. His fingers twitched at his side. “Hard decisions are hard to make. You can believe that, right? _Captain_ Grif.”

Grif remembered, suddenly, the pressure that had gathered in his chest whenever Gold Team had looked at him before a mission, and when Simmons had spent his night turning over restlessly because they had to face pirates the next morning, and when Grif had stared down at the enemy he’d just killed…

He knew all about hard decisions, alright.

“I get it,” Grif said and shifted. “But I don’t really have anything to say in this, right?”

“You should trust me with this.”

“You haven’t really given me a fuck ton of reasons to trust you.”

“But I will. Just give me the time to do so,” Temple said.

Grif hummed at that, swallowing the last bite of his bread. His stare landed on the pudding. “You forgot the spoon,” he said as he pulled off the lid.

Temple’s head tilted downwards to look at the tray. “I did. Woops.” His eyes grew distant as he let out a nervous laugh. “Biff, he- he knew this trick where he slurped the whole thing inside his mouth in one try.” He wrinkled his nose. “It was disgusting, really.”

Still, he smiled at the memory and at Grif who raised the pudding to his mouth.

“I could do that too,” Grif said and used his foot to drag the spoon deeper under the blanket.

* * *

“A glitch?” Simmons repeated. “In the helmets?”

Doyle cleared his throat. “Those who returned reported their HUDs had showed statics before going black. The only reason why they survived was due to their sheer luck of stumbling back to their Warthog.”

“And the one soldier who was clever enough to take of their helmet,” Kimball added in a sharp tone.

“Federal soldiers remember to standard safety protocol to never take off their helmets during direct contact with the enemy,” the other General said. While his voice remained perfectly calm, there was a strain in his neck that showed he was far from comfortable.

“And now half of them are dead.”

“Enough,” Carolina cut in. “Pirate movement has been spotted on both side of Armonia. We do not have the time to fight among ourselves too.”

Meanwhile, Simmons had clutched the table hard enough for his cyborg hand to leave dents in it. “A glitch in the helmet,” he said again and laughed nervously. “That’s- Oh wow, that sounds crazy.”

“…When did you last sleep?” Tucker asked him.

“I don’t know.”

“That’s the problem.”

“No, the problem is the helmets,” Caboose said. “You need to listen more closely.”

“Epsilon is trying to find a source.” Wash nodded towards Carolina but the AI didn’t appear on her shoulder. Apparently, it was too busy to form a projection at the moment. Either that, or it had nothing to say. “For now, we have to make sure to approach the enemy carefully.”

“We have a theory.” Carolina turned her head slowly to share a stare with all of them. “But we need two teams to back it up.”

A second afterwards, Sarge cocked his shotgun. “Gold Team volunteers.”

It still sounded wrong. Jarring. It made Simmons flinch in his seat. It’s wrong. They should at least change the title. Sarge wasn’t gold. Or orange. He was red.

But there already was a Red Team. Simmons’ team.

Actually, there were two Red Teams if you counted the original Red Team.

But still, Sarge couldn’t be Gold Team. He couldn’t.

Just the thought had Simmons almost yell out in denial. Or laugh bitterly. One of those two things.

But he kept his mouth shut, because he really didn’t need more concerned stares at the moment.

“No,” Carolina said. “The scouts report of a Federal bunker with a stash of explosive. Gold Team has been in charge of supply retrievals before, and I trust you to have expertise when it comes to the explosive kind.”

Sarge chuckled. “You could say that.”

“Sarge,” Wash begged with his head in his hands. “Please behave.”

“Blue Team, can you deal with the approach on the Eastern fronts? Without Wash – I need him here, in case they are preparing for an ambush. Epsilon and I need to test the limits of the glitch, so we’ll go West and meet the group spotted there. Donut, can you come with me?”

“Why?” Donut and Simmons both asked at the same time.

“Because we need a distraction. At a distance. That means your throwing arm.”

As the talk continued among the table – details being shared, questions asked, worries spoken out loud – Simmons looked down.

“What about me?” he asked.

The table fell quiet.

“Simmons,” Carolina finally said. “I think it’s best you stay here.”

* * *

 “It’s unfair,” Simmons said.

Wash watched him throw another dagger into the dirt. “That Carolina wants us to stay here?”

“That too.” The blade kept slipping in his hand, as if it didn’t want to be there in the first place. Simmons huffed in frustration. “Everything just… sucks.”

“I cannot disagree with that,” the Freelancer said. Armonia was quiet at this time of day, busy preparing for the duties ahead. A few early patrols could be seen around the courtyard where they were currently practicing. “But Epsilon wanted you here in case he could send back codes. And Carolina is still unsure in which direction the pirates aim to attack, so she wanted to spread out the best fighters.”

“Oh, _now_ Tucker is allowed to go on mission without you two watching him,” Simmons said. The words left his mouth as easily as the dagger that flew from his hand.

But he couldn’t deny the genuine exhaustion in Wash’s sigh. “I wish I had gone with Grif that day. I really do. And I think you know that, too.”

The knife ended up nowhere near the target. “I could have gone with him,” Simmons said and went to pick up the fallen blades. “But I wanted to fix that new terminal. And now I’m here. Throwing knives.” While the others were out investigation a glitch in the soldiers’ armor. “I’m so stupid.”

“You couldn’t have known,” Wash said.

The maroon soldier looked down at the blade in his hand. It felt so strangely heavy whenever he carried it. It always seemed easier when the Freelancers were the ones doing it.

“Wash,” Simmons said, “I think I have made a big mistake.”

“Oh?” After quick glances in the direction of the nearby patrols, the Freelancer moved towards Simmons in a swift movement.

“And I don’t know how to fix it now,” Simmons admitted with his head hanging in shame.

He jerked in surprise when a heavy hand grabbed his shoulder. “I know Grif would forgive you, Simmons,” Wash told him. “He wouldn’t blame you for it.”

It was not the comfort that Simmons had sought, and so it felt hollow as he embraced the words. The guilt was there, cold and hard, resting in his chest whenever he thought of the armor blueprints.

The air got stuck in his throat. “I-“

“I know a thing or two about mistakes,” Wash continued. He’d turned towards the rising sun but waited for Simmons to follow him. “Unfortunately. But you get to the point where you realize you can’t change the past. So you own up to it. And live on.”

“What if the mistake can be fixed?” Simmons whispered.

“Then you fix it.”

“And if cant- if it can’t be fixed?

Wash sighed again, and Simmons wondered if he too thought of the blood on Donut’s chest plate. But then the memory was shoved away, when Simmons had plenty of mistakes to regret.

“You face the mistake,” Wash eventually said, “and move on. There’s nothing else to do.”

“I wish I could go back in time and… and change things.”

“Time travel is a mess I don’t want to see any of you guys involved with,” Wash said dryly. From his leg, he pulled another dagger that he held out to offer to Simmons. “But we’re dealing with this. It’ll be alright.”

When Simmons took it, he bit his lip and said nothing else.

He couldn’t. There was nothing to be done, anyway. The others were far away, and Epsilon was already dealing with the glitch. Whatever truth Simmons could offer would only result in anger.

Simmons had plenty of that already.

“Try turning your wrist a bit more,” Wash advised as they faced the targets again.

Simmons wordlessly did what he was told.

This time the blade hit the mark – with the hilt.

But he still hit it. It totally counted.

“I’m sure Grif would proud of you,” Wash said as the maroon soldier walked ahead to pick up his knives for another attempt. “For taking up the fight.”

Simmons swallowed to get rid of the bitter taste in his mouth. “No,” he said quietly. “He’d think I’m really, really stupid.” 

* * *

The voices kept lingering in his head after the dreams. It was probably a lingering effect of insanity. Or maybe just the silence of the room.

It should be worrisome, probably, but he would embrace the craziness if he could listen to Simmons’ voice again. It kept him grounded.

 _“Hurry up, fatass,”_ he could almost hear Simmons scold him.

It made him bite his lip and clench the metal spoon harder.

It was a stupid plan. A really stupid plan. But with no other options, he’d rather give it a shot than just let Temple bring him home like an adopted dog.

He couldn’t flee the ship. Unless he planned on floating in space forever. Or dying from lack of air. But he could try to find the control room.

If he was lucky, he could take control of the entire ship. But lucky wasn’t a trait of his, despite it all, but he should still have a shot of sending out an SOS.

He couldn’t count on Chorus for help, he knew. But he had an option they didn’t have: the outside world.

In an ideal turn of events, he could save both himself and the others.

The door was locked, but he’d found a vent beneath the bed. From the looks of it, it was as broad as his shoulders. He should be able to fit. He had to.

Screws kept it tightened to the wall, but the edge of the spoon fit right into the cross-header. It was a bitch to do with the handcuffs on, but he only needed to turn one wrist. He’d managed to get three of them loose so far, but the constant fear of someone walking into the room had him crawl out from his hiding place numerous times.

It’d been night when he began. He knew that from Temple wishing him a good night’s sleep. But he couldn’t keep track of how long it’d been, and he couldn’t afford being caught in the act.

But this was what he was good at. Infiltrating stuff. It was what he’d trained his team to do when they’d broken into the mess hall at night. He couldn’t fight Temple but this-

This he could do.

 _“Hurry up,”_ Simmons’ voice said again, and then the final screw fell.

He tore off the lid and laid down on his stomach. Maybe he should be grateful for the lack of extra meals the last month, because when he held his breath he managed to slip inside. The corners squished his shoulders so it hurt, but he kicked with his feet and pulled with his bound hands until his entire body was inside the vent.

It was dark.

He couldn’t see his way, but the limited space only allowed him to move in one direction – forward.

Flat on his stomach, he pressed his toes against the metal and pushed himself forward. It was almost a relief when the vent broadened. He must have reached the hallway.

He still remembered Temple’s tour. If he hadn’t lost his mental compass already, he only needed to move straight forward, then a turn to the right.

Well, he was already here, and he doubted he could crawl backwards all the way to his room.

He couldn’t regret this now.

Grif moved slowly, holding his breath most of the time and biting his lip whenever sharp edges of the metal dug into his skin.

When his handcuffs clinked against the metal of the vent, he froze, scared of making too much noise. Light shined through a grate before him, illuminating the blood on his hands.

And below him:

 _“…just have gotten him laid. It’d be easier than all this. He isn’t_ that _ugly. We should have signed him up on a dating site.”_

_“C’mon, Buckey, you can’t just order happy endings online. Unless it’s a massage company. And I’m not saying Temple doesn’t need a massage – the man needs someone to work those shoulders – but a quick fix never lasts long, you know. Personally I last-“_

_“Hey, let’s not make this a competition.”_

_“I’m just saying that I’m glad to reestablish the old team dynamics! Things haven’t been the same since Biff stopped raiding the pantry. I’m sure Grif will be happy soon. I soon have that project done for him-”_

And then the voices trailed off.

“Creepy assholes,” Grif muttered under his breath. When he was sure they were gone, he passed the grate.

He first stopped crawling when he slammed his hands against something hard and cold. His skin stung at the contact, and he quickly realized he’d hit a blind end.

He turned to the right and reached upwards, holding his breath until his fingers finally met the edge. The vent continued up there. He’d have to pull himself upwards but-

The metal groaned beneath him when he dragged his legs closer. Grif closed his eyes. If he fell through this damn thing, he wouldn’t only have ruined his plan but he’d made a giant fool of himself too. He could just see the smirk on Temple’s face.

Grif tightened his fingers around the edge.

In a second that lasted too long, Grif straightened his body the best he could and pulled himself upwards. The metal groaned, and the sound drowned out everything, and Grif swore he could feel it give away-

But then he was lying on his stomach again, and Grif breathed in deeply.

 _“Almost there_ , _”_ Simmons voice said.

And Grif crawled forward until he found the grate.

He could see into the room through the slits, down towards the control panel. He could see the soldiers too; red and brown armor.

Surge froze. “Huh,” he said, and Grif figured he must be speaking to someone through a com. “Roger that. You hear that, Lopenzo?”

“Sí.”

“They need us in the whole other end of the ship now. We have to hurry and leave. Now.”

“Non riesco a capire se sei intelligente o stupido in questo momento.”

Grif couldn’t see the door from his position, but he heard the sound of them walking away and the door sliding close. The moment it did, he began to pound his fist against the grate. It shook. His hands left red trails on them, and eventually he found himself backing away until he had enough space to turn around.

As he made his way back to the grate, he mentally crossed his fingers that it wasn’t too late, that they hadn’t returned by then. Temple must have discovered that he’d fled. He didn’t have much time. But when he kicked against grate, it finally budged and fell to the floor with a loud clang. Grif followed suit and let himself slide into the room.

There was a moment of panic when gravity dragged him down and his wet fingers slipped against the metal, but it lasted less than a second and then he slammed against the floor.

He groaned, suddenly aware of the dust covering his entire body. The sudden light blinded him and he turned his head to look around and saw-

Surge. And the robot.

They’d never left the room.

“Oh fuck.”

How did they know? Had he made too much noise? This was the one thing he was good at, the one thing he could do to save himself-

Grif leapt for the control panel. If he could at least send out an SOS, something to help track them down-

He didn’t have the time to look at the buttons, he just pressed everything within reach.

A metallic hand clasped around his neck, and Grif only had the time to blink before his head was slammed against the board.

The world slowed down. Grif saw the color red; the smears on the controls, the armor, the soldier approaching; and in the middle of the stream of blurred thoughts, it occurred to him that he missed Sarge.

Fucking hell.

The hand shook him again, and this time when his temple hit the metal, his world swirled into a black void and that horrible thought went with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's call this chapter the calm before the storm. Because in chapter 10, all hell will break loose.


	10. Fall

“You have no one to blame but yourself,” Temple said as he adjusted the hood to prevent it from biting into his neck. “If you want to behave like a kid, go right ahead and be treated like one.”

Grif was almost thankful that he’d been unconscious while they had forced him into the orange hoodie. Cronut called it his sewing project, while Grif was sure that straight jacket was a better word. While the hoodie itself might be something Grif would have chosen for himself in other circumstance – it was comfy, check, it was orange, check, it would hide Cheetos stains, check – Cronut had ruined it by adjusting the sleeves and adding too many straps.

Grif had woken up comfortably warm, only to have the horror hit him when he found his arms crossed against his chest, kept tightly in place. Now he looked like he was the crazy person in this place.

Temple had appeared to help him sit up and clean the small cut on his bruised face.

Unable to do anything else, Grif glared at him. “Just shoot me.”

“Have you been listening to _anything_ I’ve said?” Temple hissed as he applied the band-aid. “You are just as stubborn...” He frowned, letting his hand linger on Grif’s shoulder for a moment. “That’s not necessarily a bad thing but-“ He cut himself off with a hiss, eyes focusing on Grif’s newly gained bruises. “What were you trying to do? Crash the ship? Kill us all? You know you can’t call Chorus. You achieved nothing.”

Temple was speaking the truth and they both knew it. Still, Grif hadn’t regretted his decision – at least not that much.

He just wished it had less consequences.

“Your poor hands,” Temple said, sitting in front of him on the bed. They had apparently bandaged the cuts on his palm and fingers before stuffing them inside the sleeves, but Grif couldn’t see it with his hands strapped behind him. “And your nose. I guess we match now.”

He gestured to his own bruise that was slowly gaining a green color. The sight was still a comfort to Grif, tugging at the corners of his lips.

“Are you ignoring me?” Temple asked after a moment of silence. “Or don’t you have anything nice to say?”

It would feel amazing to let Temple know just what he thought of him – now when he no longer had his fists to illustrate it – but he could see that this was exactly what the other man was hoping for. Grif was not going to amuse him more than he already had.

“Some of the others wanted to gag you after what you did. To bind you with ropes,” Temple continued while shaking his head. “But the point is for you not to suffer, and they weren’t stupid enough not to see reason.”

At least the handcuffs had been evidence of his lack of freedom. It was getting on his nerves that they now attempted to cover it up with an excuse of it being for his own best. Grif tried to move his fingers, wincing at the sudden sharp pain.

Temple sent him a sympathetic expression. “This would be practically painless if you weren’t being an ass.”

“Dude, I want you to know that the one thing I hate less than you is effort,” Grif snapped. He squirmed again, unable to get used to the new restrictions, but nothing budged. “And you made me try the hardest I’ve ever tried in my life. That’s how much I hate you.”

“I sense your aggression is flaring up again.”

The room was getting hotter and hotter. Grif strained his neck, feeling more claustrophobic at the second. “When will you let me out of this thing?” he asked.

“How about you prove yourself to us first?” Temple said. “Until then, I suggest you relax. That shouldn’t be hard for you.”

Temple gave him a shove to his chest. He didn’t use much force, but with his hands bound, Grif had no balance left and he fell back against the mattress. He let out a pained huff at the contact.

“Do you want anything?” Temple asked from the doorway. “We still have some leftovers since you missed breakfast.”

Grif managed to turn himself over to stare at the wall instead. His stomach almost rumbled at the thought, but then he imagined Temple feeding him lunch and immediately felt nauseous at the idea.

“Okay,” Temple said after a moment. “We’ll reach home later today. I can’t wait to show you.”

* * *

Donut stopped humming when Carolina raised her voice to ask, “Are you alright?”

He froze, one leg raised to step over the fallen tree in front of them. The jungle grew wild on these parts of Chorus, allowing for easy ambushes.

“Sure!” he said, keeping his tone light. “It’s been a while since I’ve had a good smackdown.”

As they were getting closer to the compound, his nervous habits had begun to flare up; counting the same number of grenades over and over while rubbing his wrists.

“I mean, about Grif?”

“Oh.” He filled the silence by chuckling nervously until even that sound faded away. “I miss him,” he said, lowering his head. “But I miss Simmons too. And Sarge. Everything’s changed.” He sniffed once before finding his smile again, despite it being hidden by the helmet. “And of course it has to change but- It makes me sad.”

“It needs time,” Carolina told him, speaking from bitter experience.

Donut appreciated the effort. “Yeah… I just have the feeling…” He shrugged, feeling his skin crawl again. He didn’t like the jungle and its foreboding mood. “I don’t know. I guess I’m just being broody today.”

* * *

“Seriously, just shut up about Simmons,” Tucker snapped and regretted his sharp tone a moment afterwards. It’d been a long day with no proper results, and Caboose wouldn’t shut up, and the place was _freezing_. He was pretty sure the snow had somehow managed to crawl inside his boots. “And leave him alone. He doesn’t want to talk with you.”

“Because he is sad,” Caboose said, following him out of the empty base that had provided zero new information. Outside the cold wilderness of Chorus was awaiting them. The pirates had set up camp on the Northern cliffside – an area that normally provided an impressive view of the rest of Chorus but today the steady snowfall made it difficult to see anything.

Tucker fastened his pace. “Yes.”

“Because he wants to talk to Grif,” Caboose said thoughtfully. “And he can’t talk to Grif. So he has to talk to us.”

“I just told you: he doesn’t want to talk with you.”

“But he’ll be more sad if he doesn’t have anyone to talk with.”

Tucker stopped, turning his head to try to find any splash of blue colors that would reveal the presence of their squads. But the soldiers had been told to stay away from the cliffside, where the protruding rock foundations made for a dangerous terrain. “I don’t think it’s possible to be more sad,” Tucker said with a snort.

“…Do you think Grif is sad?” Caboose then asked. “Even if he’s gone?”

“I don’t think Grif’s feeling anything any longer,” Tucker said and clenched his fists. “And it doesn’t matter because we’ve found nothing-“

“Eh, I got a call. You have to wait in line,” Caboose cut him off and placed a finger at the sight of his helmet. “Beeeep. You have reached Caboose. Yes, this is him.”

Tucker watched with a sigh while Caboose mumbled acknowledging phrases such as “Interesting” and “Very good, yes, indeed”. He hoped that the others were more successful with their missions. This place was just empty and cold, and it sucked.

“Lawrence requires our presence at the cliffside,” Caboose said after poking his shoulder to get his attention.

“He ain’t requiring shit – he’s a Private,” Tucker said, recognizing the name as one of Caboose’s soldiers. At least their squads hadn’t gotten themselves killed - yet. “What does he want?”

“I can’t remember.”

Tucker slammed a hand against his visor. “Jesus Christ.”

There was nothing to do but to turn north and trudge through the snow while keeping a careful eye for the edge. Caboose kept suggesting making snowmen, but that just reminded Tucker of Grif and he quickly shut the idea down.

Finally he saw blue armor ahead of them.

“What’s the holdup?” he asked the unmoving soldier that kept staring in their direction. “Did you spot more assholes we can beat-“

A gunshot echoed, and the soldier fell over to reveal the mercenary behind him.

Tucker had his finger against the trigger immediately. “Felix,” he growled.

Felix didn’t reply but merely tilted his helmet towards his left hand that was holding a black remote. Tucker squinted – was that a bomb?! – and then his HUD flashed.

His limbs were locked in place.

“Where did the light go?” Caboose asked, stumbling around with his hands outstretched, much like the time in crash site – just way less funny.

At least whatever had happened to Tucker hadn’t affected Caboose yet. “What did you do?!” Tucker growled, feeling his heart grow faster as he realized it was his armor that kept his body in place. He couldn’t even twitch a finger. “What is this?”

“An improvement,” Felix said slowly, “to a silly toy.”

The pressure made it difficult to talk, but still Tucker managed to spit through gritted teeth, “What – for your bedroom?”

Felix took a step closer while chuckling darkly. “Is this really the time backtalk, Captain Tucker?” Behind him, Caboose kept stumbling around in darkness.

“You killed Grif,” Tucker hissed. He could feel a drop of sweat fall from his brow – the claustrophobia beat the cold.

“I did,” Felix said.  “And if you’ve heard what I did to him, just try to image what I’ll do to you.”

Tucker held his breath when the mercenary came one stop too close.

Through the howling wind, a monotone voice called out, “Detecting enemies.”

Felix spun around to face Caboose but kept a pistol to Tucker’s helmet. With this movement, he’d stepped out of Tucker’s vision, and the Captain tried to fight against the armor holding him back.

“Drop that fucking gun or I’ll blow off your friend’s head,” Felix said.

Caboose froze. “Who’s talking?”

“Even if you’re too stupid, your gun is supposed to be smart, isn’t it?” Felix hissed, clearly remembering the battle at the radio jammer station – the one he’d lost. His voice turned condescending as he then asked, “Caboose, do you really want another dead friend?”

Freckles fell into the snow. “No,” Caboose replied.

Felix stepped away from Tucker to kick the gun over the edge, letting it fall into the white abyss below them. “Good.”

“Can we turn on the light now?”

With an angry snort, Felix stalked back towards Caboose. “If you think that stupid old helmet will make this anything less painful-“

“Leave him alone!” Tucker growled despite the pressure on his chest.

Felix’s helmet snapped towards him, and after a moment of consideration, he gave Caboose a shove in the back, sending him stumbling down along the edge of the cliff.

And with that, he returned his full attention towards Tucker. “Why would I waste the effort of killing him when I can just get the idiot to do it himself?” he asked.

Tucker was unsure if his HUD was glitching again or if he was having a panic attack. He’d put his money on the latter, though. The edges of his vision kept flickering. “Caboose!” he called out in panic.

Further away from them, Caboose spun around to look in their direction.

“Tucker wants you to follow his voice, Caboose,” Felix called gleefully.

Mudslides had eaten parts of the cliffside during spring, Kimball had told him, leaving it uneven and crumbling. It’d cracked in front of Caboose, resulting in a sudden drop.

Tucker’s heart felt as if it was about to burst against the unyielding armor plates. “No!”

“Do it or I’ll shoot Tucker,” Felix growled. “Come over here.”

“Caboose!”

The warning was right at the tip of Tucker’s tongue, but the sight made him breathless – the snowflakes against the blue soldier that took a step towards them. And then his feet slid on icy, uneven ground.

Tucker watched helplessly as Caboose was forced towards the edge, stumbling as the ground disappeared beneath him.

He fell into the blizzard raging beneath them, out of Tucker’s sight. Gone.

 “ _Caboose_!”

* * *

The palms were cold against Grif’s eyelids. He could feel them shake in excitement.

When Temple finally removed his hands, the light of the sun blinded him.

“Welcome to Desert Gulch.”


	11. Crash

The blinding sun was making him feel nauseous. Grif could feel the sweat trickle down his back beneath the thick hoodie.

“You’re trying to make me hate you, right?” he said dully as he was dragged out of the ship. “You can’t be this idiotic by accident.”

“You were homesick,” Temple said with a shrug. He remained ahead of them while letting Surge and Buckey do the dirty job of forcing Grif to come along. “I’m providing you with some familiar environment.”

Grif let his body fall limp to become more of a deadweight. But even as his feet dug long ditches into the sand, their grip of his bound torso didn’t falter. He twisted his head, face paling at the familiar sight of a canyon keeping them trapped.

They finally came to a halt in the middle of it all. “Is he going to Red Base or Blue Base?” Surge asked.

Temple needed some seconds to consider the question. “Blue Base for now,” he finally said and nodded towards the building.” It doesn’t seem fair that you have to deal with his fits.”

“Do you want to know what’s unfair-“ Grif hissed and began to jerk back and forth when the grips on him turned painfully tight.

“No,” Buckey cut him off. “Stop wriggling.”

Naturally, Grif didn’t do what he was told, but he came to regret his rebellion when he managed to pull himself loose, only to land face-first against the sand. He quickly realized that the hoodie made it impossible to pull himself up, and he grimaced when sand began to crawl down his throat.

The hands that finally lifted him weren’t gentle. “That was your fault,” Buckey let him know while Grif spat out sand in his direction.

He was still sputtering when his feet eventually bumped against the metal floor of Blue Base. The interior was painfully familiar: he could almost imagine Tucker’s bass lying discarded in the corner and Caboose’s broken toys appearing on all the different surfaces.

Grif widened his eyes in surprise when he realized he hadn’t imagined the toys. They were sprawled across the floors, next to several tools.

Loco must be even more like Caboose than what he’d first dared to believe.

“Shelly, try to revive the AC,” Temple called out to the ceiling, and after a minute of a jarring buzzing noise, cold air finally swept through the room.

Grif let himself feel the relief for a split second before he was dragged into one of the bedrooms. A neatly made bed was awaiting him, and Surge and Buckey unceremoniously dropped him on top of the orange blanket.

He landed on his back and immediately tried to push himself up without the aid of his hands, only to groan in frustration – perhaps he should have done those sit-ups Wash had ordered them to do.

“Stop,” Temple asked of him. He was the only other person in the room now. “Please.”

With a loud sigh, Grif let himself sink into the mattress and began to count the tiles in the ceiling.

“You can rest now,” Temple said while shifting in the doorway. “Can I bring you anything?”

Grif bit off dry skin from his lips. “No,” he lied.

* * *

 Tucker could hear the bottom of his boots scrape against the floor as Felix pulled his frozen body deeper inside the base. Without the ability to turn his head, he just watched the grey walls of the hallway. It was some old Federal Base, he supposed, judging from the faded propaganda posters Kimball had complained about before.

After watching a door slid close, Felix finally came to a halt. He grasped Tucker’s stiff shoulder to turn him in the right direction.

“There we go,” he said, stepping back after adjusting his position. “You know, this interior decorating is much more fun than it sounds.”

“Don’t tell Donut,” Tucker hissed and squeezed his eyes shut. His left leg suffered through another cramp.

Felix chuckled in amusement before placing himself right in front of his visor. “How’s the view?” he asked.

“Your ugly face ruins it.”

“Seriously.” The mercenary took a step back and placed a hand on his hip. The smugness was practically radiating from him. “How’s the view?”

The emphasis had Tucker think of something else than the white snow and the blue color of Caboose’s armor. As he focused, the room slowly came into focus. It was an office, he supposed, or whatever you called the scheming room in an evil lair. Light fell through the window behind him, shielding their surroundings from Tucker’s view. What he could see what the table behind Felix, several screens showing unfamiliar models and schemes.

But the table surface itself was cluttered with pieces of orange armor…

“Oh, you absolute fuck!” Tucker yelled and strained against the force keeping him in place, despite knowing it was unyielding. “I’m going to fucking kill you!”

“Big hero Tucker!” Felix smirked. “Haven’t really saved anyone in a while, have you?”

“Fuck. You.”

The mercenary held up an armor plate, studying it in the bright light. “This really helped with the research,” he said before carelessly throwing it over his shoulder. “Triggering the armor lock is a brilliant idea, but we needed a… broader reaction. Even if it only messed with the helmets. Well, it was enough to do Caboose in.”

Tucker’s lung began to burn again. “Shut up.”

But Felix amused himself with his own voice. “It took too long to get the thing to work. But I wanted the first proper show to be perfect.” He leaned back against the table, pointing towards one of the screen. “The armor blueprints helped speed up the process, though. Ask me how I got them.”

Despite knowing how helpless he was in the situation, Tucker didn’t give him the satisfaction of a question. “You stole them,” he said instead, keeping his voice firm.

“No.” Felix paused, allowing Tucker to imagine just how much he was smiling behind the visor. “Simmons gave them to me.”

The armor already kept Tucker frozen, but he felt his muscles jolt at this revelation. Sweat crawled down his back and he tasted something bitter when he licked his lips. “No way.”

Felix laughed again. “Because you may all be idiots, but Sarge had a point. You are Reds and Blues. You take care of your own. Even if you suck at it.” He tilted his helmet towards the discarded armor pieces. “For Grif, Simmons was willing to screw you all over in a heartbeat. Not that it did much for him in the end, but the thought counts.”

It was getting harder to breathe. Were you supposed to be able to taste your own heartbeat? Tucker ignored the growing ache in his chest at the thought of Caboose – Grif – himself – Wash – this – _everything_.

Everything just _sucked_ and it _hurt_ and he couldn’t do anything about it.

“You’re so quiet, Tucker. Am I boring you?”

“What do you want?” Tucker forced through gritted teeth.

“I want to kill you. All of you,” Felix answered easily. “And that’s where this thing gives me _so_ many opportunities.” He held up the remote, twirling it between his fingers. “I can make you watch the rest of your friends die. I mean, I’ve killed, what, half of them by this point, but we can make things slow and painful from here.”

Felix slowly walked around him, like a predator circling its prey. He was so close that Tucker could punch him if only he could move.

“The idiot had a point – rotting inside your armor is an awful way to go.” Felix patted Tucker’s helmet twice before turning to leave, darkly calling over his shoulder, “But I’ll make sure you see Agent Washington die first.” 

* * *

“I can hear your stomach growling.”

Grif pretended not to hear him, just like he’d done the last day. He focused on the gentle breeze on his face, and once again thanked the non-existing gods for letting the AC work. It was his last comfort these days.

Everything else was just awful. His stomach felt as if it was eating itself, his throat was killing him.

But even when he felt like begging, the sight of Temple made him refrain. This wasn’t about pride. This was about the other’s man satisfaction.

“I’m not starving you – you are doing this yourself,” Temple said as he sat down on the bed.

Grif tried to roll over and did his best not to feel nauseous when his world tilted.

“Don’t be stupid,” Temple said and reached for his face.

Fingers pressed against Grif’s forehead, then travelled down his jawline. Finally they settled on his lips, feeling the dry flakes that spread from the bloody cracks.

 “You’re dehydrated,” Temple concluded. “And starving.” He sighed and lifted Grif’s chin to get eye-contact. “Why won’t you let me help you?”

“I’ve told you,” Grif rasped, “get me out of this thing and I’ll eat all your food.”

“And I’ve told you – that’s not happening,” Temple said, pulling gently at the hoodie. “Buckey already accuses me of going soft on you. Can you imagine the snark if I cave in to your complaints? We cannot let him turn that smug.”

Grif flexed his fingers inside the entrapping fabric. At least his shoulders had finally begun to be numb from the position. It was better than the aching pain. “Not my problem.”

“No, your problem is death, and I’ve been doing a very hard job of keeping you alive, so _would you please stop spoiling this for me_? Thank you.” Apparently out of patience, Temple shoved a water bottle against Grif’s mouth, using enough force to make his lips part. “Drink.”

Grif sputtered as the water was forced down his throat, but his body instinctively accepted the liquid.

Temple first let go when he rushed for the door, leaving Grif to catch his breath with water drops falling down his chin. He could hear Temple hiss:  “ _I’m working on it_!” to someone in the hallway, and then the Blue returned with a plate full of steaming fish.

“I’m afraid that cheeseburger was a one-time event. You wouldn’t believe how hard it is to get proper resources when you are living off the grid. But we wanted you to have a warm welcome.” He sat by the bed again, using a fork to smash the fish into mush. “The good news is that we have an unlimited amount of fish. So I really hope you like that.”

He held up the fork, expression matching the one of an annoyed parent. “Open up.”

“I’m not a baby,” Grif hissed.

That was the point of it all. Temple needing to take care of him – to protect him or control him or whatever he tried to call it. Temple seeing him like a pet project.

It wasn’t just his movement that was being taken away. It was his voice, too. His opinion, as if it’d ever mattered.

Grif had humiliated himself before. He’d been humiliated. Sure, Sarge had taken pleasure in making him look stupid. But Temple didn’t seem gleeful about it. Just condescending. And that was somehow even worse.

“You are acting like one,” Temple snapped at him. “A fucking toddler too ungrateful to realize what’s been given to him. You think I haven’t dealt with stubbornness before? Have you seen the people I work with?”

Grif spat at him, hoping he had enough water left in his mouth to make a statement. He then let himself fall back against the pillow, closing his eyes. Right now, the best solution seemed to just lie here and rot. If only Temple would leave him alone.

Dying a slow death of starvation would suck, yes, and it was ironic in like ten awful ways, but at least he would escape this mess that seemed to be growing bigger and bigger every day.

Temple’s fingers closed around his nose, squeezing his nostrils shut.

“I won’t let you ruin this,” he said while leaning closer. “You’re going to live, Dexter, and I’ll make sure of that. And then your Agent Carolina can go fuck herself. Excuse my language.”

He didn’t let go.

As he spoke, the pressure in Grif’s lungs began to grow. It was like a tank, slowly creeping on top of his chest. It made his vision swim; Temple’s hovering face became blurred and his voice was drowned by buzzing in his ears.

Grif opened his mouth to gasp, inhaling precious air, and the fork plunged its way forward until it scraped against the back of his throat. The fish was burning hot. And bland, he dully noticed while trying not to choke.

“We are getting through this one bite at the time,” Temple said while closing his hand around Grif’s jaw until he swallowed. “You’ll see it eventually. You’re not _stupid_.”

Temple prepared another forkful of fish.

Grif forced his mouth shut again.

“I’ll tell Cronut you loved the dinner,” Temple said as his fingers snapped around Grif’s nose. “It’ll make his day.”

And so the process began again.

* * *

 Tucker couldn’t breathe.

His lungs couldn’t expand. His muscles kept acting up. His vision was starting to fail. The suit had begun to stink.

What should have been a relief was the disappearance of Felix, but the mercenary had left with the promise that he would return with Wash.

He’d gone out there to capture him, and the only thing he needed to do was to push a button, and Tucker couldn’t even warn him because he was stuck here.

Caboose was dead, and now Felix was going for Wash-

 _He couldn’t breathe_.

“Fuck!” Tucker cried out, jerking against the invisible bonds, hoping to at least make the armor shake. “Fuck, fuck, fuck it, _c’mon_.”

He couldn’t move. He couldn’t do anything.

He was stuck here, _alone_ and Felix would find the others, and he would make Tucker watch…

Something red entered his vision, and at first Tucker thought he was going mad – literally seeing red. It wouldn’t surprise him; this was like _the_ experience of claustrophobia without caves and shit.

But then the red insulted him.

“-the Blue’s gotten himself stuck. Bitters, take notes.”

“On what?”

Orange followed him inside the room, and for a moment Tucker believed it to be Grif, but then he remembered that he was an idiot and Grif was dead.

This was a hallucination if anything.

“Hallooooo!”

No, actually, this was a rescue mission.

“Sarge?” Tucker croaked, flinching at the finger tapping against his visor. “Holy crap- How did you-?”

“We were real busy loading all that dynamite when one of them pirates decided to do what pirates do best – take what isn’t theirs and wear an eye patch. And after we were done greeting him, he is gonna need that patch.” Sarge raised his chin in pride. “Long story short: after holding a lit dynamite he got real friendly and told us all about his latest report. _And_ he didn’t mind calling his command to report on a fire in the state of Washington. That sure got them out in a hurry.”

Tucker blinked; it was the only action he was capable of doing.

“We had him tell Felix that Wash had been spotted planning an attack,” Bitters explained dully. “It had him running out like his pants were on fire.”

“ _And_ we happened to have our hands full of explosives. Seemed like the perfect time for a rescue mission. Suck it, Blue.”

“Caboose,” Tucker gasped, and the pain flared up in his chest again. “He-“

“Aye,” Sarge said. “We were told ‘bout that too. Doesn’t change the fact you’re getting out of here. Bitters, get him out of here.”

“ _How_?” Another fist bumped against Tucker’s armor. “He’s stuck.”

“That’s inconvenient. How long time do we have left with the bomb?”

“Wait, you actually lit that thing?!”

“Of course! How else-“

Sarge cut himself off so suddenly that Tucker feared he’d swallowed his tongue. He couldn’t see what Sarge was staring at, not until the Red shifted, taking a step towards the armor plates.

Tucker saw Sarge pick up an orange gauntlet, staring at it intensely. Bitters was standing behind him, saying nothing.

“Sarge,” Tucker gasped, “we have to move. If Felix comes back, you’re gonna get frozen, too.”

The Red visibly shook his head to drag himself out of his thoughts and then marched over to wrap his arms around Tucker’s torso. “Bitters, help me with this.”

Reluctantly, the Lieutenant did what he was told.

Tucker grinned as he was finally moved away from the spot he’d been stuck on in what had felt like an eternity – and then his grin faded as he realized in which direction he was being pulled towards. “Wait, why are we moving _away_ from the door?”

“Express deliverance,” Sarge huffed, as if that meant anything.

“Are we sure this is a good idea?” Bitters asked. Tucker could have kissed him. “I mean, I don’t want to get blamed for his death.”

And there went Tucker’s gratefulness for the orange soldier. “Seriously, what’s behind me?”

“Nothing you need to worry about. Yet. Bitters, shoot the window.”

“ _What_?!”

Sarge reached out to place a hand on his shoulder. “If that fancy armor lock works, you’ll survive this. If not, let me know.”

“Wait-“

“Timber!” Sarge yelled and gave him a shove in the chest.

Tucker felt himself tilt backwards. He saw the grey ceiling turning into the blue sky above them – and then he tipped over completely.

As he fell, the world ceased to exist. It was a blur of color and noises, like a rollercoaster going too fast. He was spinning, Tucker was sure of that. He’d been pushed out of the base and now he was falling and he was-

He landed face-first against the snowy ground, still stuck in the same position.

It didn’t hurt. He couldn’t _move_.

He just laid there, visor covered by snow. It made everything dark. He couldn’t see anything. He could only hear the wind roar.

“Sarge?” he called out and received no answer. “Sarge!”

He couldn’t tell time. His HUD had bugged out.

All he could do was to wait and- and what if the Reds didn’t find him? What if Felix found him like this, stuck, abandoned?

There was nothing to see, nothing to do. It was just dark and- was he imagining this cold?

Was this what Caboose had felt?

Had he survived the fall? And if that was the case, had he suffered like this in darkness? Stuck? Abandoned? Alone?

Had he called out for them?

Had he believed they would come?

What if no one came for him, Tucker wondered as he lost control over his breathing. His chest was burning again, unable to expand.

He was lost here, and he wouldn’t see Wash again. He wouldn’t see Caboose again.

He’d rot here, in the snow, and Felix would be somewhere, laughing at his fate despite it all…

There was voices around him, talking to him, but he couldn’t make out the words. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t tell time.

The darkness changed, turning too bright, colors blending together in front of him. It didn’t matter. He couldn’t think. Not with his lungs burning like this, not with the image of Caboose lying in the snow, broken-

“ _Tucker_!” Wash called. “Tucker, it’s okay!”

Tucker stared at the familiar shade of grey. He recognized it. It let his lungs expand. “Wash,” he breathed out.

“That’s right. It’s okay, Tucker, we got you out.”

“My armor-“

“We’re working on it,” Wash promised, and Tucker believed him. “But they got you out, you’re back in Armonia-“

Tucker tried to listen to him, he really did, but his eyes had drifted towards the soldier standing in the shadows. Maroon. He recognized that too.

 _Simmons_.

Finally, Tucker found enough air to yell, “ _YOU TEAMKILLING FUCKTARD!_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sarge: yeet

**Author's Note:**

> As always: English isn't my native language so I apologize for any mistakes, and you can find me as riathedreamer on tumblr.


End file.
